Somewhere in college, I decided I had outgrown her and took her down. I miss her.
While My Love still lived in Chicago, we spent an afternoon on the beach flying kites. Being my girly-girl self, I insisted on a butterfly kite. I loved it. My Love, on the other hand, had quite a bit of trouble keeping my kite in the air. After one particularly spectacular round of verbal abuse following more kite troubles, I scolded, "Hey! That's Miss Butterfly to you!"
Sometime after that trip, My Love started calling me butterfly (among many other terms of endearment and muttered under breath curses). It stuck. I love it
I'm not ashamed to admit that this would look rockin' with my black, silver, and white decor.