Forbidden Bites: The Paris Pic That’ll Get Me Ghosted

Relationship WW3

Okay, here we go - Rod is gonna straight-up loathe me for this, and I’m probably kicking off World War III in our relationship by posting it. But hey, isn’t it way easier to beg for forgiveness than ask permission? Am I right, or am I just delusional?!

For the last eleven months, I’ve been straight-up banned from unleashing this photo on the world. Like, full-on embargo.

But let’s be real: this is my all-time favorite shot of my man that I’ve ever snapped. It’s the reigning champ in my camera roll. Hell, it’s my favorite photo, period. No contest.

And get this - it’s from my absolute peak moment of our whole European escapade. You’re probably clutching your pearls right now, wondering how in the actual hell it’s some random AirBnB vibe and not, I don’t know, the Eiffel Tower gleaming like a tourist trap, those oh-so-charming cobblestone streets that destroy your ankles, or the magnificence of Spain . ( Great questions, I suppose, if you’re into that clichéd postcard crap.)

Truth? I could crash under the stars with this guy, or hell, even in a ditch and I’d be obnoxiously content. Our 7-11 Slurpee “dates” are my guilty pleasure high point. Dancing under sketchy streetlights? Chef’s kiss. It’s the dumb, everyday nonsense that hits hardest and sticks around like a bad tattoo.

We snagged some midnight Paris street food from this hole-in-the-wall joint where no one spoke a word of English. A bunch of young Parisians outside chain-smoking and pretending their lives are a Wes Anderson film as we wandered in.

Back at the AirBnB, we both cannonballed onto the bed like overgrown kids, cackling our asses off. I shoveled in a bite, and my face basically screamed “what sorcery is this?” before I could even form words. Once my jaw unlocked, I was all but forcing it on him - begging, really - because those flavors? Utterly alien, in the best “mind-blown” way.

Even typing this out, I’m smirking like an idiot.

He leans in, chomps down, and boom, his face mirrors mine exactly. “Oh my gawwwwwd,” he drawls, diving back in with these guttural moans straight out of a caveman documentary. That’s when I stealth-snapped this gem. I lost it, giggling till tears streamed down my face like I was in a rom-com montage.

He jumps in on the laughter, then fake-tackles me, and honestly? I didn’t know happiness could hit that obnoxiously high note. Or safety. Or just pure, unfiltered chill. Or, gag me, that level of love.

Finding someone who amps up your real-deal self instead of dimming it? Yeah, that’s some rare unicorn shit. It is priceless, if you’re into that Hallmark card nausea. (I am!)

Babe, forgive me (or don’t, your call), but the world desperately needs this sappy tale to balance out all the doom-scrolling.

I love youuu ❤️❤️❤️