Every time I look into your eyes I can’t help but think, “My god, those are gorgeous. Like the golden brown of a perfectly baked pound cake.” And while it’s safe to say that I notice the imperfections – one eye just a shade larger than the other, the scar over your left brow, the occasional dark circles – they don’t make me love you any less. In fact, sometimes when you look less than your best, I think of you as a tragic figure in a novel, that’s been hurt and is in need of tender love and care.
A tragic figure in general, actually...if I’m honest. When I really stop to think about some of the hardships you’ve gone through, it nearly brings me to tears. And is there anything more romantic than tragedy? I daydream about your rescue. About your sudden lottery win, your unexpected discovery and ascent to the top of the best seller lists, your immense sexual satisfaction from the person you want most, and the eradication of Japanese Cherry Blossom lotion and shower gel. All things I know would make you immeasurably happy. I’d give them to you if I were able.
Adoring you isn’t easy, though. I’ve always been worried about what other people would think were they to find out just how involved we really are. It’s not that I’m ashamed of you exactly, but it would be nice if you could behave yourself. Gallivanting around, throwing yourself at people that don’t understand you and appreciate you the way I do...well, it just doesn’t help matters. But it’s time for everyone to know that, for better or worse, it’s the two of us. And you must face it as well – it’s far too late for that “let’s just be friends” line. I love you.
I love the way you wrap your wet hair in a towel, even though you know it’s going to keep coming loose, causing you to curse and flip upside down repeatedly. I love the way you curse, actually – the way you say fuck out loud where everyone can hear, but mutter “darn” to yourself, then get angry because darn is such a pussy sort of word and you’re no pussy. I love the way you walk around the house brushing your teeth, bent slightly at the waist and leaning out so that no toothpaste lands on your shirt...yet it always does.
I love the way you make faces in the bathroom mirror, alternately attempting to look serious and seductive. It’s rarely the latter, but that’s ok because I don’t need you to seduce me. Our love making is perfunctory and that’s as it should be. Our relationship is about deeper emotions and commitment, not finger strokes in the dark (Well, sometimes in the afternoon when you’re stressed. Don’t ever say I don’t take care of your needs.).
I’ve never much liked mouth breathers, but I can’t deny it’s slightly endearing when you watch movies with your jaw lowered like a drawbridge, completely oblivious to anything else. Your lips are a bit too thin and your nose a bit too pointy, but you have simply marvelous tits. I know you’re well aware of this since you’re often seen shaking one or both of them at people...even me, which just makes me laugh.
I love that you often have to remind yourself to make eye contact when meeting someone new – because after some workshop years ago it was stressed that people take you more seriously if you do. Yet consequently, you end up over thinking the whole thing and staring at them in a rather intense, creepy way. I love the way you mingle at parties – staying close to the alcohol and the people you know until you’ve had just enough, plus maybe an Adderall, then making your way around the room introducing yourself like a politician. You’d be a shit politician, by the way.
Your ego is an issue. You have a bit of a problem with thinking everything is about you...all the time. When there’s a nameless insult, you automatically think it’s directed at you. And when there’s a period of silence, you automatically assume you caused it. This is more prevalent on Twitter, but it shows up in other social areas as well. For instance, you tend to believe that every man that smiles at you wants your vagina, even though I’ve told you a million times that isn’t necessarily the case. Those could be pity smiles, my dear. You’ve taken to leaving the house without makeup quite frequently over the past year. Still, I can’t help but admire you in spite of your navel gazing.
In spite of a lot of things, really. Your nose picking habit...in fact, your habit of constantly mentioning your nose picking habit. Your tendency to be louder than 85% of the planet – your voice carries, there’s no need to shout. Your abysmal finances, your refusal to take care of your car or learn how do anything with it other than drive (changing the oil is, I hear, not that difficult), your complete lack of patience, and your uncanny ability to drive people far, far away.
But let’s not dwell on your faults any longer.
My love for you is like a Kamikaze pilot - proudly plummeting toward a target, intent on going out with a bang. We’re perfect for each other. And as long as you’ll let me care for you, I promise I’ll never try to cut you or get you arrested (for anything larger than a misdemeanor), and to let you have sex with whomever you want (provided you haven’t been on an all night drinking binge). Because that’s what a real relationship is all about – trust, sharing, honesty, and the avoidance of herpes.
Always love,
Yourself
Showing posts with label what voices. Show all posts
Showing posts with label what voices. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
"The insane, on occasion, are not without their charms.”
“Your grandmother thinks you need to be committed”, my mom said with a satisfied look on her face.
I rolled my eyes and turned back to my book. Here we go again. I moved my lips along with her next statement, parroting it word for word:
“Really, she does. It used to be that when you turned someone over to the loony bin, they’d give you $50. I hate they don’t do that anymore. I could definitely use the money and you could definitely use the help. Heh, heh, heh.”
My family just loves this “joke”. It makes the rounds every so often, along with:
1) You’re just like your father.
2) Men won’t date you because you have sex with them too soon.
3) We sometimes think you’re a lesbian, but it might be preferable to being a whore.
4) You’re not a nurturer. Just move out and leave the kid with us. You know you want to.
That last one is my favorite. It makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. But I digress; let’s discuss this insane theory, hmm?
Mental illness runs in my family – manic depression, bipolar disorder. And I’m relatively sure my cousin is schizophrenic. No one ever knows who the fuck he’s talking to.
Aside from all that, I’ve always considered myself the “normal” one. While I might be weird to the general public, especially women, within my family I like to think that I collected all the marbles they lost and stored them up to use when needed.
I’ve seen my share of therapists, it’s true, but I attribute the majority of that to dealing with the neurosis of others. When you’re always around whack jobs you start to question your own sanity, to get drawn down into their rabbit hole of floating furniture and talking caterpillars that smoke the ganja.
My second to last therapist diagnosed me with ODD – oppositional defiant disorder. That’s about as crazy as I get. According to The Grandmother, this is enough to make a “vacation” necessary. Even though the diagnosis is from several years ago, it’s the only thing they have to cling to right now. Desperate people – grasping at straws!
But they have nothing left to fall back on because there’s no way I still have it.
Symptoms of ODD:
See? Equal opportunity refuser – that’s healthy, not crazy.
For example: If you just received a ridiculous sum of money from a dead relative I’m going to be resentful, I’m going to call you a lucky fucker, and I’m probably going to be angry that all my relatives are poor. It’s totally natural. But I’ll be happy for you as long as you share. Nevermind about your dead relative. You got money, ass cheese. Crying is for pussies.
“It’s not my fault she said ‘damn’ at school! You said it four times the other day and I usually just say ‘fucker’, which she didn’t say so there!”
“It’s not my fault that my car payment is late. The barman seduced me with Jack Daniels and karaoke!”
“It’s not my fault he likes me better. You should have slept with him first. I mean....”
I’m not in constant trouble. I occasionally get reprimanded for being late (and by occasionally I mean three times a week) and for occasionally wearing “unprofessional” attire (and by occasionally I mean three times a week) and I occasionally get the “oh, no you din’nt face” for saying things like “eff that shit in the ahole” and “your mom likes sausage” (and by occasionally...ok you get the point).
And just for the record, that last one is not fair at all. My boss is always saying things that cause me to make the “oh, no you din’nt face”. Like when she refers to lesbians: “licky splity”. Just...no.
For example: When my sister, the soul sucking twig of perfection, says something incomparably rude like “You’re a sucky mom” (I’m paraphrasing, but trust me, that’s exactly what it boils down to.) I respond with a bland facial expression and a quietly spoken:
“You listen to me you little asshole (soft smile). What you know about parenting could fit into your – A cup bra. When you push an 8lb squalling chunk of human out of your fucking vagina, in front of assorted strangers and one nurse turned paparazzi, then you can give me parenting advice. That may be happening sooner than you think since you can’t seem to keep your legs closed. Zing. Now, I suggest you turn around and toe-touch your little cheerleading ass out of the general vicinity before I decide to karate chop you in the face (innocent eyelash fluttering).”
Spiteful? All women are spiteful to a degree, even my 75 year old grandma.
Me: “I don’t want to go to church. I like gay people. I don’t care about politics, it’s boring. No, I don’t know anything about Al Gore and global warming because I don’t watch the news.”
G-ma: “I made this beautiful chocolate brownie pie with cream cheese icing. It’s absolutely delicious! You should try a piece. Mmm maybe a smaller piece, dear. *Hip poke, hip poke*. Actually, you know what, (takes back pie) you might just want to eat this piece of lettuce instead.”
Pause.
“How do you feel about gay people now?”
“What’s that clicking? Are you clicking something?” Cheeky grin from child in question. “You don’t fool me, I hear clicking.” 5 minutes later: “OH MY GAWD WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?!”
“Put your pants on. Put your pants on. Put your pants on. Put your pants on. OH MY GAWD WHERE ARE YOUR EFFING PANTS KID!”
Kid: “Mom, what are those?” Points in the general direction of a million different objects.
Me: “What are what?”
Kid: “Those!” Still pointing.
Me: “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Which thing are you pointing at?”
Kid: “That right there!” Finger wavers over a plethora of things and stuff.
Me: “Seriously, kid.”
Kid: “Why?”
Me: “Don’t start with the why stuff, please.”
Kid: “But why?”
Me: Deep breath...”holy mother...”
Kid: “Mom! WHAT IS THAT?!”
Me: Tugging on hair, eye sockets exploding - “I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T KNOW! CHRIST ALIVE, I DON’T KNOW!”
That kind of stuff goes on all day, every day. I’m thinking about having the closet sound proofed.
Obviously there is no need for me to be committed. I’ve been looking into new therapists, but I probably wouldn’t need one of those either if the stupid doctor would just give me some pills that make me deaf for 14 hours a day and every other weekend.
On second thought...how quiet are those padded rooms?
I rolled my eyes and turned back to my book. Here we go again. I moved my lips along with her next statement, parroting it word for word:
“Really, she does. It used to be that when you turned someone over to the loony bin, they’d give you $50. I hate they don’t do that anymore. I could definitely use the money and you could definitely use the help. Heh, heh, heh.”
My family just loves this “joke”. It makes the rounds every so often, along with:
1) You’re just like your father.
2) Men won’t date you because you have sex with them too soon.
3) We sometimes think you’re a lesbian, but it might be preferable to being a whore.
4) You’re not a nurturer. Just move out and leave the kid with us. You know you want to.
That last one is my favorite. It makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. But I digress; let’s discuss this insane theory, hmm?
Mental illness runs in my family – manic depression, bipolar disorder. And I’m relatively sure my cousin is schizophrenic. No one ever knows who the fuck he’s talking to.
Aside from all that, I’ve always considered myself the “normal” one. While I might be weird to the general public, especially women, within my family I like to think that I collected all the marbles they lost and stored them up to use when needed.
I’ve seen my share of therapists, it’s true, but I attribute the majority of that to dealing with the neurosis of others. When you’re always around whack jobs you start to question your own sanity, to get drawn down into their rabbit hole of floating furniture and talking caterpillars that smoke the ganja.
My second to last therapist diagnosed me with ODD – oppositional defiant disorder. That’s about as crazy as I get. According to The Grandmother, this is enough to make a “vacation” necessary. Even though the diagnosis is from several years ago, it’s the only thing they have to cling to right now. Desperate people – grasping at straws!
But they have nothing left to fall back on because there’s no way I still have it.
Symptoms of ODD:
- Actively does not follow adults' requests
See? Equal opportunity refuser – that’s healthy, not crazy.
- Angry and resentful of others
For example: If you just received a ridiculous sum of money from a dead relative I’m going to be resentful, I’m going to call you a lucky fucker, and I’m probably going to be angry that all my relatives are poor. It’s totally natural. But I’ll be happy for you as long as you share. Nevermind about your dead relative. You got money, ass cheese. Crying is for pussies.
- Blames others for own mistakes
“It’s not my fault she said ‘damn’ at school! You said it four times the other day and I usually just say ‘fucker’, which she didn’t say so there!”
“It’s not my fault that my car payment is late. The barman seduced me with Jack Daniels and karaoke!”
“It’s not my fault he likes me better. You should have slept with him first. I mean....”
- Has few or no friends or has lost friends
- Is in constant trouble in school
I’m not in constant trouble. I occasionally get reprimanded for being late (and by occasionally I mean three times a week) and for occasionally wearing “unprofessional” attire (and by occasionally I mean three times a week) and I occasionally get the “oh, no you din’nt face” for saying things like “eff that shit in the ahole” and “your mom likes sausage” (and by occasionally...ok you get the point).
And just for the record, that last one is not fair at all. My boss is always saying things that cause me to make the “oh, no you din’nt face”. Like when she refers to lesbians: “licky splity”. Just...no.
- Loses temper
For example: When my sister, the soul sucking twig of perfection, says something incomparably rude like “You’re a sucky mom” (I’m paraphrasing, but trust me, that’s exactly what it boils down to.) I respond with a bland facial expression and a quietly spoken:
“You listen to me you little asshole (soft smile). What you know about parenting could fit into your – A cup bra. When you push an 8lb squalling chunk of human out of your fucking vagina, in front of assorted strangers and one nurse turned paparazzi, then you can give me parenting advice. That may be happening sooner than you think since you can’t seem to keep your legs closed. Zing. Now, I suggest you turn around and toe-touch your little cheerleading ass out of the general vicinity before I decide to karate chop you in the face (innocent eyelash fluttering).”
- Spiteful or seeks revenge
Spiteful? All women are spiteful to a degree, even my 75 year old grandma.
Me: “I don’t want to go to church. I like gay people. I don’t care about politics, it’s boring. No, I don’t know anything about Al Gore and global warming because I don’t watch the news.”
G-ma: “I made this beautiful chocolate brownie pie with cream cheese icing. It’s absolutely delicious! You should try a piece. Mmm maybe a smaller piece, dear. *Hip poke, hip poke*. Actually, you know what, (takes back pie) you might just want to eat this piece of lettuce instead.”
Pause.
“How do you feel about gay people now?”
- Touchy or easily annoyed
“What’s that clicking? Are you clicking something?” Cheeky grin from child in question. “You don’t fool me, I hear clicking.” 5 minutes later: “OH MY GAWD WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?!”
“Put your pants on. Put your pants on. Put your pants on. Put your pants on. OH MY GAWD WHERE ARE YOUR EFFING PANTS KID!”
Kid: “Mom, what are those?” Points in the general direction of a million different objects.
Me: “What are what?”
Kid: “Those!” Still pointing.
Me: “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Which thing are you pointing at?”
Kid: “That right there!” Finger wavers over a plethora of things and stuff.
Me: “Seriously, kid.”
Kid: “Why?”
Me: “Don’t start with the why stuff, please.”
Kid: “But why?”
Me: Deep breath...”holy mother...”
Kid: “Mom! WHAT IS THAT?!”
Me: Tugging on hair, eye sockets exploding - “I DON’T KNOW! I DON’T KNOW! CHRIST ALIVE, I DON’T KNOW!”
That kind of stuff goes on all day, every day. I’m thinking about having the closet sound proofed.
Obviously there is no need for me to be committed. I’ve been looking into new therapists, but I probably wouldn’t need one of those either if the stupid doctor would just give me some pills that make me deaf for 14 hours a day and every other weekend.
On second thought...how quiet are those padded rooms?
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