We all seem to need the help of someone else to mend that shelf of too many books.
You and I need to get something straight. We need to sit down and talk about all of these things we tiptoe around all the time. All of the things that are always left unsaid. Because it's starting to take its toll. At least, it is on me.
I don't know where you're getting your information, but it's dead on. As much as I hate to admit it, it's dead on. But the problem is, you can't say something like that offhandedly and then not elaborate. You can't just leave me hanging like that. It's not fair.
And then to assume my irritation is only because of you. Don't you realize? Everyday, I take shit from everyone. I mean, I guess I should take it as a compliment, but everyone picks on me. And you know what? It's a little irritating. I don't want to be the subject of everyone else's jokes. I can take it, but it's as if as soon as I return it, you start pouting. You start on with your tantrums, and then you blame me. I'm not your fucking wife. I don't have to answer to you. I don't have to apologize for my feelings being hurt. But, of course, you're never wrong. It's never your fault.
The first hour, you keep your mouth shut proclaiming: "I'm not going to talk because every time I do you get pissed off." First of all, why would you change your habits because of me? You know what, you can have your fucking vacation. You can have your fucking pride, and your fucking assumptions. You know what this has been doing to me. You have to know. How blind would you have to be to not see it?
You know what the most hypocritical thing about all of this is? As soon as I stop talking, you get a bug up your ass, bugging ME about why I'M not talking. But it's not okay for me to do it.
I've been fighting this for the better part of eight fucking months. And I'm the one who has to go home and sleep alone.
And then you sit up there on your high horse and tell me that I'm being dramatic. That my father didn't CHOOSE to pass away on my birthday. You know what? I've done my fucking time. I don't need you to tell me how I should feel. I don't need you to tell me that I should celebrate the day that changed my life forever. I'm allowed to be selfish for one fucking day out of the year. And if that's overly dramatic, then fine. I don't fucking care. Because you don't know what that has done to me. You don't KNOW the struggle I've been through, and how I feel like I have to be strong every goddamned day of the year when all I want to be is weak. Let me have my fucking weak day. Let me have one day out of the year when I can fucking feel sorry for myself. I think I've fucking earned it.
I'm tired of your push and pull bullshit. I'm tired of this hot and cold bullshit. And I'm tired of you saying it's only me. It's you too. And you know it. The difference is, I have the strength to acknowledge how I feel. I have the strength to acknowledge the things that I do. You don't. I'm dealing with this head on. You've thrown a handtowel over it, as if you can't see the eight hundred pound gorilla in the room. I may not like the eight hundred pound gorilla, but at least I've acknowledged that it's there. At least I'm dealing with its presence. You keep telling yourself it's not real.
Well, you know what? It is. Deal with it.
Six more weeks. And then I'll be rid of you. Of you and your charcoal eyes.
I don't know where you're getting your information, but it's dead on. As much as I hate to admit it, it's dead on. But the problem is, you can't say something like that offhandedly and then not elaborate. You can't just leave me hanging like that. It's not fair.
And then to assume my irritation is only because of you. Don't you realize? Everyday, I take shit from everyone. I mean, I guess I should take it as a compliment, but everyone picks on me. And you know what? It's a little irritating. I don't want to be the subject of everyone else's jokes. I can take it, but it's as if as soon as I return it, you start pouting. You start on with your tantrums, and then you blame me. I'm not your fucking wife. I don't have to answer to you. I don't have to apologize for my feelings being hurt. But, of course, you're never wrong. It's never your fault.
The first hour, you keep your mouth shut proclaiming: "I'm not going to talk because every time I do you get pissed off." First of all, why would you change your habits because of me? You know what, you can have your fucking vacation. You can have your fucking pride, and your fucking assumptions. You know what this has been doing to me. You have to know. How blind would you have to be to not see it?
You know what the most hypocritical thing about all of this is? As soon as I stop talking, you get a bug up your ass, bugging ME about why I'M not talking. But it's not okay for me to do it.
I've been fighting this for the better part of eight fucking months. And I'm the one who has to go home and sleep alone.
And then you sit up there on your high horse and tell me that I'm being dramatic. That my father didn't CHOOSE to pass away on my birthday. You know what? I've done my fucking time. I don't need you to tell me how I should feel. I don't need you to tell me that I should celebrate the day that changed my life forever. I'm allowed to be selfish for one fucking day out of the year. And if that's overly dramatic, then fine. I don't fucking care. Because you don't know what that has done to me. You don't KNOW the struggle I've been through, and how I feel like I have to be strong every goddamned day of the year when all I want to be is weak. Let me have my fucking weak day. Let me have one day out of the year when I can fucking feel sorry for myself. I think I've fucking earned it.
I'm tired of your push and pull bullshit. I'm tired of this hot and cold bullshit. And I'm tired of you saying it's only me. It's you too. And you know it. The difference is, I have the strength to acknowledge how I feel. I have the strength to acknowledge the things that I do. You don't. I'm dealing with this head on. You've thrown a handtowel over it, as if you can't see the eight hundred pound gorilla in the room. I may not like the eight hundred pound gorilla, but at least I've acknowledged that it's there. At least I'm dealing with its presence. You keep telling yourself it's not real.
Well, you know what? It is. Deal with it.
Six more weeks. And then I'll be rid of you. Of you and your charcoal eyes.