You rubbed my back because of–yet another–battle with insomnia. It's just that I can't turn my brain off, I told you in between tears. We had just left Phoenix after the first stop of theFIX, I was still sick, and feeling like the worst version of myself…and I felt like a failure. At four o'clock in the morning, you sat with me as I rewrote my notes and rehearsed my presentation. By the time you shut the window to our room on the bus, the sun was rose and the moon disappeared, leaving pale purple shades in its absence.

On a break during the New York City show, I rushed to you and said the line for the girls' bathroom was overwhelming and I worried it'd cause problems with keeping things on time. You looked around a dusty storage room, grabbed a bottle of disinfectant and scrubbed the boys' bathroom toilet, later announcing to a line of waiting ladies it was officially a unisex option.

In Denver you took the dog for a walk, but when you didn't return 40 minutes later and didn't answer my repeated phone calls, I worried. Yes, I–much to my embarrassment–imagined you stuck in a ditch somewhere after being mugged or something. Right. Like a group of hippies wearing tie dye shirts are the mugging type, but still. I panicked. I thought about canceling the show and asking the attendees to act as a search party a few hours later when they were slated to arrive. When you bopped into the bus ten minutes later, I was so upset I cried. BECAUSE THE HIPPIES ALMOST GOT YOU.

Almost a month stuck on a bus with me and I don't think I can tell you this enough: thank you. You're the better half of me, our business, and our dreams. Thanks for the sunrises, clean toilets, and taking long walks. Tonight is our last show in Los Angeles and because of the dedication of you and team, we're completing it with our heads held high. Here's to living out loud…