A sort of retarded essay that has nothing to do with anything.
I haven't written any normal blog-type entries in a while since I do not have internet at my workplace, but I wrote this the other day so figured I would post it.

The narrator is NOT ME.

I had no reasons/excuses for writing it.





First off, please stop crying. I love you and it hurts me to see you hurting. Not that you’re not allowed to feel hurt and feel pain, because that’s a part of human experience I can’t deny you (nor would I, normally), I just don’t want to have to see it.

Do you want some time to clean yourself up before we have this talk? Your face is a mess-- your eyes are completely swollen shut from the crying and your complexion is blotchy and uneven.
And I know you’re going to protest through those beautiful lips of yours—fuller today than usual, I noticed—that no, you’re not crying, that this is a physical reaction to a shellfish allergy and that is has nothing to do with our mutual trust issues or the state of our relationship.

I was not born yesterday.

I can tell that you’re angry—your skin is so red and tight that I can almost see welts of resentment working their way up your arms. I will assume it has something to do with “Saturday night” and have a feeling I’ve hit the nail on the head, given that you seem to be completely at a loss for words. Acknowledging your dramatics, I’ll assume the strangled, breathy exhalations are an indication of your intense antagonism, despite your insistence at pointing at the shrimp tails I left in a colander in the sink. Let’s keep the focus where it belongs here—on us. On what we’ve been and what we have the potential to be.

I went out Saturday because I wanted to give you some space. Because I feel like I’ve been around too much and you don’t have your own life. The fact that you have your hands up around your throat confirms my suspicions about my behavior over the past few months. I’ve been choking you. I haven’t been letting you get enough air. Yes. Air. I get it. You can stop illustrating the concept. I’m not an idiot and I feel bad enough as it is. But the thing is, I feel like you’ve fallen out of love with me and I’m just desperately trying to get you back. Is any of this resonating with you at all?

I’m trying to have a serious conversation about a serious topic. Us. And yes, since you clearly won’t let me go on until I address your agenda here—those are mussels. A bag of discarded mussel shells. Because this is me, muscling my way back into your life, and this is you, so emotionally cold that your complexion has taken on a bluish tint. What happened to the warm, loving person I fell in love with?
I want things to be the way they were back in January. You were so attractive in your blue Northface jacket, your eyes sparkling and so much less bloodshot than they are today. Back when holding my hand gave you goosebumps, as opposed to the golfball sized welts my company has given you this evening. Do you miss all that? I miss it. I don’t always verbalize how much I miss it, but I do.

I’ll admit it. It’s hard to talk to you while you’re rifling through your medicine cabinet. I don’t know if this is some sort of symbolic relationship technique, but you clearly want me to stab you with your Epi-pen. Isn’t this taking things a bit far? I know I’ve hurt you emotionally, but are you really one of those people who needs to dull the emotional with physical pain? Do you feel like it will hurt less to have me pierce your skin with this needle than it did to have me pierce your stone-cold façade with love?

I am only doing this because I care about you and if that means participating in your silent drama, so be it. I must admit to myself that I have already become a willing participant in the soap opera of your existence and if that extends to inflicting physical harm (at your bequest) on your person, who would I be to deny you what you want?

Where should I thrust the needle—your heart? The location that feels, in my humble opinion, the most fitting, and yet I see you dramatically grasping at your thigh, as if that is where you compartmentalize me.
I’ve never had anything to do with your heart, have I? This relationship, in which I foolishly invested myself, has been nothing but below the belt. Here I am, at your feet, my emotions as inflamed as the majority of your facial features, and yet I must resign myself to the fact that this relationship will fall far short of my expectations. There is nothing I can do that I have not attempted to do already. It is beyond saving.

I’m glad we’ve had this talk. Here’s your Epi-pen, hurled with mixed emotions into the flesh of your splotchy leg. Do you feel better, now that I’ve done it? I do. I’ll admit that it brought me some semblance of pleasure to bring you a modicum of the pain that you’ve brought me over these long, winter months. It seems to have calmed you down as well, which is advantageous. I feel as though we’ve had a physical battle here, each of us propped up against the wall, panting.

Dear god, but love is invigorating.