Andrew Carlos Potts

Today is one of my best friend's birthdays. Twenty-three years ago today, Andrew (also known as honey, sweetheart, Prez, Caliente Carlos, Aryan poster child, etc.) was born.

I met Andrew at a little dessert party thrown by some girls in our ward. We went to get ice cream afterward. I thought he was cute, but probably too cool for me. Less than a week later he was laying on my floor, eating ice cream straight out of the carton and talking about celebrity crushes (two categories: celebrity you wanted to be and a celebrity you wanted to marry. I can't remember who he said he wanted to be, but I KNOW he wanted to marry Shakira).

His iPod has screamo music, folk music, and a whole lot of Mexican rap.  He once ripped his pants front to back while dropping it like it's hot at a ward dance. Instead of regular lights in his car he has blue lights. Like a club. In his car. He likes to go to dinner, which means our friendship was like, written in the stars. And he appreciates that I really only like to go to about five places.

Andrew is just a good person. A good egg, if you will. He's the kind of guy that will come visit you when you're sick, or ask if your nail polish is new. He understands how important it is for me to instagram pictures of what food he's eating. He has a huge heart and I've never really heard him say anything bad about anyone. He actually reads my blog and cares about things like blogger meet-ups and guest posts. He lets me cook for him and doesn't get mad when I use my mom voice (which is often).

(This is my favorite picture. We're dancing, and homeboy is wearing a full Grinch pajama outfit. In April)

I could go on forever. He cleaned my apartment for me when I was moving out. I've made him be my date a million different times. He even holds my purse. Seriously. He just shrugs and says "boyfriend duties." I even am friends with his mom (I could go on for hours about her too. She's awesome).

We love you, Prez.