I have a request to make. I'd like to set it in context, but if you can't take the time to read my whole story, then feel free to skip to the point. But I'd rather you read all of this.
You're incredibly generous, beautiful people. So I know that when my birthday comes up soon, and Christmas after that, you're going to try to give me something. Some of you have an intuition for gifts—you'll see something perfect in a shop and straight away buy it for me. Others will agonise over getting me just the right thing.
I don't want things.
I have too many things already—so many that I can't even use them all. I can barely list them: cosmetics, hair styling products, clothes, books (including borrowed ones), bags, kitchenware, stationery, shoes, jewellery, tea blends, boxes, wines, maps.
(Okay, I take that last one back. An adventurer can never have too many maps.)
These things take space away from what's important to me.
Moving these things out of the way to get to the important things takes time. Separating out these things to dispose of them takes time. That's time I'd rather spend on what's important to me.
Many of these things have sentimental value because they I received them from people I love—people like you—which makes the process much harder. Things become important because they represent the people who are important, but they're just cheap reminders of the genuine items, and I don't want them.
I want the real deal: your smiles, your conversations, your presence.
Please don't get me anything for my birthday.
Please don't get me anything for Christmas.
Please give me only your love and your stories.