When you told me that it was hard to believe that I, in fact, was the one that wrote my blog
That you were surprised, when you initially started to read it, at how funny and well-written and genuine and outright GOOD it was
That you almost could not even see, "no offense", something like that coming out of me -
… that was when I knew just how bad things are.
Two years later. Two years down the line. You're the boss, boss. And I appear at your side when you need someone to save you from a bad mood, or an overdose, or to give you a ride home from work, or simply just to love you enough. You make me feel stupid on a nearly day to day basis. You hate my lipstick. You didn't like my dog. I chase you anyway.
Some days I wake up and I look at myself in the mirror and I tell myself that I am asking for too much, and that is why I am unhappy. That maybe love is just accepting the hand you have been dealt, not something out of a Disney movie. Maybe love has less to do with glass slippers and Prince Charmings, and more to do with when he remembers to text me, or when we don't argue about how much he is going to drink when we are together, or when he hasn't decided to date someone else because he feels like I'm not "into it". Other days, I ask myself how I got here, but then I have to stop before I finish the question, because I don't like the answer.
A few weeks ago, you made me apologize for not having enough life problems. Because you have fucked up your own life, and the biggest bump in my road, at that time, was Lady GaGa canceling her tour. You said that you would try to feel bad for me, but, you know, it was really hard to care, given the real stuff you had going on. I sit beside you like a show dog and take the abuse, suffer the embarrassment, and listen to the incessant stream of complaints, quiet and waiting for you to throw me a bone, pet me like a good girl, poised and ready for your hand. Because after the bad always comes the good. All that I have, all that anyone wants to give to a girl like me, anyway.
But I can't help but think it.
If you bothered to know me at all -
If you bothered to remember my middle name.
If you bothered to know the little things about me that I feel like someone who actually cared about me should give a damn about knowing - like what my favorite song is, or what the tattoo on my arm says, or that I want nothing more in the world to grow up and be a writer -
Then it wouldn't be so far fetched to read the words on the screen and hear them in my voice. To know that I am an educated, intelligent, sarcastic, funny, talented, and well-written little lady.
And if you bothered to know me at all -
You would know that my greatest problem in life, in all honesty & actuality, is not a fucking Lady GaGa concert tour.
its you.
Share This Article
