So, this happened:
After 8 years, we’re officially engaged. I COULD NOT BE HAPPIER. ❤
#25: Probably unknown (possibly “guilty”) pleasures. Talk about them.
Desperate Housewives. Any and all Investigation Discovery shows. Sweet Valley High books. V.C. Andrews novels. Nineties music, especially Alanis and Jewel. Twilight (OH, THAT’S RIGHT); the books, the movies, and anything else that has to do with it. Josh Hartnett. Putting soy sauce on my salad. Pretending to be in a music video when I listen to ANY MUSIC. Imagining what I’ll do when, someday, I run into the people that left me behind. Getting mildly drunk and letting my imagination take the wheel, completely. Dancing around in my living room when I’m alone, until I either step on a cat or run into the coffee table. Celebrity-obsessed, trashy magazines. Drawing naked ladies, ballet dancers and ethereal scenes. Painting with water colors. Watching videos of people having their dreams come true (think: competition shows’ winning moments). Kaiser Permanente commercials (that LADY always makes me cry). Talking about anything with my brother, except his girlfriends, who tend to suck a whole lot. Green olives and cream cheese, eaten together, usually in sandwich form. Zoos.
Him: Hey, I’m making diner tonight 🙂
Me: But I’m not a cannibal!
Me: I’M NOT A CANNIBAL!
Him: …well, I am?
Me: ::Quietly mourns lost, snarky editor joke::
I’m pretty sure he just ignores me most of the time.
I am too hungover to be this hungover.
I blame this:
But, I still have this:
So I think I’m good.
“Because ya see, John boy, we’re not sensible ones, not what you see in the films, with all the froofy-poofy junk. We’re no pussy cats that you can coddle and pet and put in your lap and expect that to be enough to make us purr, or even… even expect us to want it so common. It’s all wrong. You’re all method and no madness; all pull and no push. You gotta relax or you’ll walk outta here lonely. You can handle that, you’re decent; but you don’t cut off a sparrow’s wings and then turn around and ask it why it can’t fly.”
Twenty-seven has been my lucky number for as long as I can remember. It was my Powder Puff football number, the number I won $400 in Roulette on (27 black, to be precise), part of my dorm number freshman year at SF State– where I met my now bestest, whose lucky number is also 27– and in general has shown up, front and center, at some of the happiest times of my life.
Today is my incredible man’s 27th birthday. We’ve been having some rough times financially over the last couple of years, and he’s been thrown some extraneous and especially lame curve balls from Life during the course of it. I hope that, starting today, the number 27 can bring him all of the luck (and then some!) that it’s brought me. He absolutely deserves it. Here’s to an amazing, talented, intelligent, sweet, wonderful man that rocks my world every single day.
1. “I don’t know why I thought it was all right or necessary to say what I said the way that I did. It’s not that I wasn’t speaking from the heart, per say, but more so that I was speaking without any heart at all.”
2. “But it isn’t so easy as that. I meant what I said, but I don’t think I meant it for you. I think I meant it for me, and used you, as I often do, as the unfortunate sounding board for my own insecurities and distaste for myself. Sometimes I get wrapped up in numbers, in goals, in comparison, in what’s “normal” and “right” and what’s “supposed to happen.” I spent so much of my life unconventionally, as you quite accurately put it, that when I was in the thick of it, I could do nothing else but think of my escape. And my escape would only come with the future, my future, any god damn future, and I ignorantly and naively sought to confine that future to a set of predetermined goal posts, thinking that: I will ________ when I’m 22. Be ___________ by 24. _______by 25. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. But that’s just the thing, and you told me this, I can’t control the numbers. I never could.“
3. “And then she told me, ‘I thought I could make myself be happy through the external factors of my life, never once stopping to consider that the unhappiness was in fact, totally internal.’ I was unsure of what to say. To agree would be to validate that she was somehow in complete control of her sadness, which I don’t believe. But to disagree is to take the fall. I wanted to just… gree. And it was impossible.”
4. “Logically, this makes no sense. I am a successful, smart, handsome, funny, talented man who is young enough to not be worrying about tomorrow. I have no reason at all to be concerned with my life, or its course, or where it is at present. I have a beautiful girlfriend who, for some unknown reason, completely adores me. My parents are healthy. My sister is finally home. I have friends who love me, coworkers who depend on me, and a pretty damn good life overall. I have no right, no right, no right, to cry or complain or even think that anything at all is wrong. Especially if I’m not going to do something to “fix” what isn’t even broken.”
5. “Don’t you see the correlation, darling? Every insecurity I have about myself—that I’m taking too long to become who I’m supposed to be, that I won’t succeed, that I’ll struggle financially for the rest of my life, that no one gives me credit for all of the work that I do, that I’m not doing what I should be doing—I project it onto you. And my god, I am so, so sorry. So incredibly sorry. For someone that claims to want fair treatment, I’m doing an awful job of giving it to the one person who has quite literally never turned their back on me no matter what horrible things I’ve done.”
6. “The facts of the matter: I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine. We’ve been fine, more than fine, and getting better as the years pass. I fall more in love with you every day. Every time you talk to me. Every time I look at your picture or your face or feel your skin and hands and lips and everything else. Hear you laugh. Watch you eat. Watch you look at me when you think I can’t see you. I love how quietly you exist, like a good luck charm that you keep in your pocket and touch when you’re scared. I love the way your eyes light up when you talk about music, the way you turn down the corner of your mouth when you’re concentrating really hard, the way you smile when you’re laughing so hard you’re about to cry. I love your ‘trying not to laugh’ face, your teeth, your ears, your neck, your arms, your voice. When I make you smile I nearly burst from excitement, no joke—I am that much of a nerd for you. I love the way you bury your face in my hair, when you close your eyes and inhale and make a little satisfied sound… I love belonging to you. I love being with you. I’m so proud of you, your talent, your knowledge, your humor, your determination, your passion, your ability to risk judgment and normalcy for what you love. These are the things I should be telling you, every day, every minute. That I adore you and want you, just as you are, perfect and wonderful, forever. That you astound me, every day, by being just who you are. And I don’t tell you. I’ve failed you, because I’ve failed to realize what I was doing—hurting you to hurt myself. I’ve failed us.”
7. “It’s been weeks since I’ve felt right, or been able to focus. Maybe that has nothing to do with anything, or maybe it has everything to do with it. I just don’t know. I guess I’m apologizing in the hopes that you’ll gain some insight into why I am the way that I am. So that you’ll know I’m just a personal-problem-projecting bastard, and may always be that way. So that you have the option to decide if you love me in spite of that. God I hope you do. Because love is not even strong enough a word to describe the way I feel about you. How much I need you. How I really don’t think it’d be worth it if you weren’t here to share it with me.”
8. “I believe I’ve gone on for long enough.”
After 5+ years, it’s so, so good to know that he still watches me walk away.
…even if I only find this out because he notices something is stuck to my ass.