Dear future hubster

Dear future hubster, a week ago I started creating a Spotify playlist. I called it Resistance , and now I can't rename it, because apparently, you can't do that with Spotify playlists, you would have to delete the whole thing and start a new one with a new name. If I could rename it, I would probably call it We're Still Here.  I think it's fitting for this end-of-the-year season, to say "this is me, and I'm not going anywhere, so deal with it". This year has not been easy. Not for the world, not for me. It was rewarding, it taught us many things, it got us to places, but easy it was not. Still, we managed to get this far - the last day of the year (unless you're in East Asia or somewhere in the Pacific, in which case, Happy 2019, dear future hubster), and plan to carry on. We're still here, and we are who we are, only a little more experienced than this time last year.  There is a chance that 2019 won't be much easier. Hell it may b...

Dear future hubster, the rules for being my flatmate are quite simple: 1. Coffee in the morning comes before everything and everyone else. 2. Accept it as a fact that I don't have too many shoes. 3. Only put the bottle of alcohol back in the fridge if it still has a visible amount left in it. Otherwise just empty it and get me a new one.

Dear future hubster,  when you finally decide to show up, and I convince myself to settle down for a while (don't even ask me to settle down forever, that's way too unnerving, let's just start with a few years at the time), and we can finally have a fully equipped kitchen, please be prepared to have plates that insult you and your guests, weird Danish pinboards and unicorn-shaped cushions, and potentially mugs that promote Trudeau 2020. I come with an eclectic style, yes. 

Dear future hubster, Shari showed me an advent calendar of socks . Now considering my widely known soft spot for cool socks (and great hair), it goes without saying that I totally want to get you one.  Minor issue is that I don't know your shoe (sock) size, and I'd prefer to avoid a one-size-doesn't-always-fit-all fiasco. Therefore, you are hereby kindly requested to identify yourself, or at least the size of your feet. Preferably in European measurements, but I understand weird American sizes too, if necessary. 

Dear future hubster, in this search, this quest to find each other, you might feel hopeless time and again. In the sense that you think you lost all hope of ever finding me. I know I do. I wonder if you're as bad with directions as I am, and hope that somebody someday will give you a map. It's not just the map though, it's the crippling uncertainty, that scary thought of "how do I know?".  I don't know how you know it; I don't know if you or anybody ever really knows .  But here's an advice I got from a friend: when you meet somebody who makes you feel at ease, in your comfort zone, safe to be yourself, wanting to be a better version of yourself, and who also makes you want to rip their clothes off more often than not, you know what you do? You effing marry them.