(no subject)
Click to viewI'm turning into a sappy romantic, looking for a Sunday kind of love and all that.
The only time I saw the proverbial "Sunday" in my last relationship was from the other side of Saturday night, like a scene out of the fucking hipster olympics. I love you, baby. Let's put on our big sunglasses and nurse our hangovers together. Monday through Thursday was still fucking ugly, and after a while we weren't even together for the Saturday nights and the Sundays were filled with contempt and resentment.
Hanging out with him recently reminded me of what a fucking horrible bitch I can be. I hate that side of myself, and that it can be brought into such sharp focus so quickly. I hate that it exists, period. I am afraid that it's always waiting for an excuse to come out, and that I'm poised at any time to inflict grievous psychological harm on someone who knows me to be sweet and fun and doting.
In the meantime, I'm given the opportunity to be sweet and fun and doting for a few hours at a time, and it's easy given that structure to lay it on pretty thick...
My trysts exist in their own little universe, sweetly and quietly parallel to the one in which I am a ballbuster. The woman kissing you is so different from the woman hollering at her neighbors about a length of fence before spending an afternoon dismantling it with hammer and cat's paw in hopes of forcing them into a decision that makes some actual fucking sense.
So where is my Sunday love, the man who loves us both?