Allow me to just put this out there first:
I am a catastrophe.
I know it, you know it, every sorry individual who has been unfortunate enough to get close to me knows it.
I’m not saying it’s a completely bad thing. But it is certainly a confusing thing, and so I wanted to first say that I am thankful. Thank you, for your patience and your ability to cope with me.
I fully comprehend that I am fully incomprehensible. My aspirations fluctuate on a daily basis, and I suffer from self-induced emotional whiplash while at the same time displaying the emotional sophistication of a lizard. I swear, I have a lot of feelings, I do. I just tend to keep them in a tightly closed, glass jar, like the one I tried to make kombucha in, letting them sit there unattended until something horrible happens and overnight they have become a sickening, sickening disaster.
I should keep better tabs on the health of my disconcerting self-conscious, I know…but it’s just so much easier to close the cupboard door, so to speak.
The good news is that I have found that I am much better at writing my feelings down than actually vocalizing them, nailing them down like a literary crucifixion with scary spikes known as adjectives and adverbs and prepositional phrases.
(Prepositional Phrase – a modifying phrase consisting of a preposition and its object.
Which begs for the additional definition:
Preposition – a word governing, and usually preceding, a noun or pronoun and expressing a relation to another word or element in the clause, as in “the man on the platform,” “she arrived after dinner,” “what did you do it for ?”)
You are easily the most tolerant and admirable individual I have ever met.
You would have to be, wouldn’t you? To be able to maintain your sanity after this many nights in my company.
Because I cannot even fathom what it must be like for you. I’m constantly in my own head, on other planets in galaxies where everything is just rainbows and butterflies and magic, magic, magic. I cannot understand how it must feel to sit on the couch next to me and yet be nowhere near me at all, for there to be physically nothing other than a disgruntled dog and a veil of silence between us, and yet know that I’m gone. The metaphorical lights are on, but no one’s home.
But I always come back.
I do, and you’re always waiting, and you’re never bitter or resentful towards me for my mental vacations. You deal with all of my nuances, just like I deal with all of yours (which are admittedly far fewer and less annoying. In fact, I can’t even think of any at the moment. Damn you)… And I think that’s called marriage?
Thank you for being mine.
I love you.