It’s OK. I forgive you for hopping out of your cup and onto BOTH the white shirts I’m wearing today, first thing in the morning so I have to walk around all day with three faint splotches of coffee on my chest.
I know you didn’t mean it. You’re just enthusiastic, and I love that about you. I wish more things were that eager to get inside me.
Though, for future reference, you don’t have to do it on my chest. I will happily swallow you, then beg for more. But if that’s what you need, you do you, my love.
Over the weekend I finally settled an issue with a family member who “didn’t want to talk about this.”
I get that, I really do. I don’t want to talk about it, either. But if you keep refusing to talk when I need to, I will hate you. I won’t mean to hate you. I won’t want to hate you. But you’re telling me I’m not worth the time, or enduring the minor discomfort you’d feel during a conversation? No. I’m not gonna smile and play Cool Girl while I silently stew in your bullshit.
We’re adults. We talk about it, or we don’t talk. Your call. Reasonable? Of course not. But I’ve learned that NOT communicating solves nothing. It just creates larger problems because now everyone is operating on presumption and hurt feelings.
I forced a 10-minute, in-person conversation because I thought it was worth forcing (because I don’t want to spend my life butthurt), and now we’re good.
I fucking hate when hippies (ie, my therapist) are right and I can’t just be Irish and swallow my rage. Swallowing is my favorite. Oh. Wait, no…