you're always brilliant in the morning

11:09 PM

I could ask you to pass me the arts and leisure section but unfortunately it's attached to the classifieds which is the only section of the newspaper worth reading according to a post-it I once found in your backpack. I don't really know why you felt the need to write that down, and on a post-it specifically, but I guess you did and here I am sitting here chatting about it. Maybe that was your reason, to be discussed because it is possibly one of your favorite past times. I get it, it's about you. The only problem I have with that is that I don't have a problem because it's actually not about you, it's about me. Here I go, turning things around again. I like to point out the obvious, or better yet point out the fact that nothing in our routine is about you, which really gets to me. I don't get the chance to be the nurturer that I am. I don't get to pick up your dishes or pour your coffee, with a little cream and real sugar because fake sugar is gross. I even know how to make it though I'm never given the opportunity and why? Because I've done it enough? I deserve a night off? What is that? I think maybe I do need to help you pick out a shirt and wait my turn for the paper we happen to share because if we save that extra dollar twenty-five I'll be able to get a bagel on the way to work? I hate bagels so you're right, I'll just get a coffee, black like my soul, and then you laugh at the joke you make to take my mind off of the deadline I have coming up later this week. I keep the kitchen divorced of any order on purpose, I like to clean it, preferably in front of you so you can see I do want to take care of you.

Stop babying me, I get it. I fucking get it.

I really want a cigarette but I can't smoke in front of you, just like I can't have more than two glasses of wine at night because if I do you'll carry me to bed, kiss my forehead and turn on a cartoon because you know that's the only thing I can fall asleep to. Just once I'd like you to get upset that I left the spice cupboard open again and I didn't unplug my curling iron and you tripped on the cord while stepping into the shower. I'm sorry, please accept my apology, but no. I come home and the cupboards are shut and the cord is twisted around the iron and there is even a god damned ginger ale in the fridge. Stop it.

I'll figure it out someday, but until then I'll briefly forget that I've given up soda and maybe all of my bad addictions and we can enjoy sharing the paper. I'll just read the fucking comics.

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0 speaks

sup fool.