Let’s talk. Woman to woman. Lips to lips.
I know it’s hard not to give into peer pressure. At home, you spend your days crossing paths with two powerful teams of hormones. It’s natural for you to want to learn how to dance in sync, as opposed to doing the awkward left-right-left-right “sorry, sorry, excuse me” shuffle down the hall.
You see the moon, growing and shrinking, waxing and waning, and you want to one-up her ability to shift the tides by letting your (our) rivers flow. But trust me, the moon ain’t got shit on your waxing triumphs.
When I stress, travel, or don’t sleep enough, you notice. And you certainly let me know you notice… either by playing hard-to-get, or becoming “that guy” who arrives awkwardly early to the party.
Even a Google Cal couldn’t master your intricate scheduling demands.
So, Period, I want to take a moment to appreciate you for being my monthly trophy for successful escape from not-so-immaculate conception. But there’s also some stuff I want to get off my chest, so to say.
For starters, OWWWWWW!!!!!! Can we tone it down, a bit? To be honest, you’ve felt way more like an exclamation mark recently. I get the point. Let’s stick with appropriate punctuation, please.
Also, real talk… I’ve heard of a sacrificial lamb, but my underwear is not, and never will be, made out of wool. There’s no need to create a scene. You are not auditioning to be the star in one of those popular Bay Area murder mystery games.
And most importantly, when I told him I’m “getting wet” thinking about seeing him Monday night, you weren’t exactly what I had in mind. In fact, not even a close second. Couldn’t you have dropped the package off a few days ago? Or waited patiently until he departed?
Now don’t get me wrong; it’s not that I’m ashamed of you or anything. Your “give zero fucks,” rebellious, hella bold attitude is inspiring. Oh, and you’re quite the feminist, if I do say so myself. On most days, I wish I could be more like you. And even on the less-than-fortunate days, I swear you were the inspiration behind Pollock’s masterpieces.
But maybe, just maybe, someday you’d be down for some compromises. Till then, I’m going to listen to Rachel Lark on repeat and pray to the “warm, bloody, and tender” goddesses, writhing in pain at your mercy. I hope you’re at least getting off on this.