Bullshit.
You can't have both...
I wish you wouldn’t do that. I wish you wouldn’t say that. I wish you wouldn’t be here. I wish you wouldn’t go away.
I want you here. I want you to go away. I want you to kiss me hard. I want to slap you across the face.
I want everything, but it’s impossible to have everything, because it all contradicts itself in some way, doesn’t it? You can’t be happy and sad. You can’t eat meat and be a vegetarian. You can’t be an Atheist and a Catholic. You can’t be a boy and a girl.
It’s selfish.
I’m selfish.
And you’re beautiful, sitting on the other end of the couch and staring too hard at the television. I’m scribbling all this pointless shit in a blue notebook you got for me at Wal-Mart when you were there last weekend. Ten for a dollar. You bought ten. All different colors. You love me.
Anyone but Jon could walk in right now and think everything’s fine. And Jon wouldn’t say anything about it. I guess that means it’s up to us to figure this out. Fat chance. You just bring up the most random of things and hope it leads to screaming and crying so we can sleep in separate rooms and you can try and sort all your thoughts out.
I just don’t say anything. Not when we’re fighting like this. Not when it’s something that will never be fully resolved, something that will always . . . exist. You’re you and I’m me and we’re just . . . us. We shouldn’t be right for each other, but we are and the only times we ever worry are the times like now.
And it’s never the “right” type of worry either. I’m sitting here, scribbling in a blue notebook with a black pen and wondering if you’ve finally had it, if you’re finally going to break up with me.
“I’m going to bed, Brendon.” I say, untucking my legs from under me and stretching them, trying to get the blood flowing through them before I stand up. I close my notebook and set it down on the coffee table.
“Why?” you ask, turning and looking at me.
“’Cause I’m tired, that’s why.”
“It’s eight ‘o clock.”
“Well, I’m really tired.”
“You just don’t want to be in the same room with me.” you say stubbornly, crossing your arms and turning back to the television.
“There’s that, too.” I mumble, standing up and walking toward the open doorway. I hesitate for a moment before I put my foot in the hallway. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.” you say distantly.
I hurry up the stairs before you can see the tears on my face. Love you, too. Not I love you, too. Maybe if we hadn’t so earnestly discussed the difference that one letter makes so soon into our relationship, maybe if I didn’t know what we both believed the difference was.
But what did I know about belief?
That’s what this entire fight was about. All the fights. The fighting. An over and over spiral of screams and crying. I’ve never been ashamed to cry in front of you, so our fights usually end with me in tears and one of us giving apologies we don’t really mean.
It’s all bullshit.
And I’m so scared of us becoming the same thing.
I want you here. I want you to go away. I want you to kiss me hard. I want to slap you across the face.
I want everything, but it’s impossible to have everything, because it all contradicts itself in some way, doesn’t it? You can’t be happy and sad. You can’t eat meat and be a vegetarian. You can’t be an Atheist and a Catholic. You can’t be a boy and a girl.
It’s selfish.
I’m selfish.
And you’re beautiful, sitting on the other end of the couch and staring too hard at the television. I’m scribbling all this pointless shit in a blue notebook you got for me at Wal-Mart when you were there last weekend. Ten for a dollar. You bought ten. All different colors. You love me.
Anyone but Jon could walk in right now and think everything’s fine. And Jon wouldn’t say anything about it. I guess that means it’s up to us to figure this out. Fat chance. You just bring up the most random of things and hope it leads to screaming and crying so we can sleep in separate rooms and you can try and sort all your thoughts out.
I just don’t say anything. Not when we’re fighting like this. Not when it’s something that will never be fully resolved, something that will always . . . exist. You’re you and I’m me and we’re just . . . us. We shouldn’t be right for each other, but we are and the only times we ever worry are the times like now.
And it’s never the “right” type of worry either. I’m sitting here, scribbling in a blue notebook with a black pen and wondering if you’ve finally had it, if you’re finally going to break up with me.
“I’m going to bed, Brendon.” I say, untucking my legs from under me and stretching them, trying to get the blood flowing through them before I stand up. I close my notebook and set it down on the coffee table.
“Why?” you ask, turning and looking at me.
“’Cause I’m tired, that’s why.”
“It’s eight ‘o clock.”
“Well, I’m really tired.”
“You just don’t want to be in the same room with me.” you say stubbornly, crossing your arms and turning back to the television.
“There’s that, too.” I mumble, standing up and walking toward the open doorway. I hesitate for a moment before I put my foot in the hallway. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.” you say distantly.
I hurry up the stairs before you can see the tears on my face. Love you, too. Not I love you, too. Maybe if we hadn’t so earnestly discussed the difference that one letter makes so soon into our relationship, maybe if I didn’t know what we both believed the difference was.
But what did I know about belief?
That’s what this entire fight was about. All the fights. The fighting. An over and over spiral of screams and crying. I’ve never been ashamed to cry in front of you, so our fights usually end with me in tears and one of us giving apologies we don’t really mean.
It’s all bullshit.
And I’m so scared of us becoming the same thing.