Eleven

My baby E,

For someone doing a writing course, this is surprisingly difficult to put on paper. Or blog. You know what I mean. I’ll blame the library computers for it. I can almost hear you saying “you dildo” to this. I can always hear you saying all sort of things in my head. I’m really glad you exist, so I can complain about how annoying it can get. Especially when I’m about to kiss that guy you said “No” about literally five minutes before. I’m really glad you exist, because schizophrenia with your voice in my head would be the worst.

I’m cheesy as fuck, blame it on my ovulation or potential pregnancy or whatevs. Blame it on the fact that you left me fifteen minutes ago because “Lidl shuts at 10”. Blame it on how lonely I feel, or how typing on this positively ancient keyboard echoes more than that one guy who always wanks in the library. Blame it on how much I love you and us. Blame it on whatever the fuck you want, as long as you accept it as valid.

I pray to whatever god I invent and believe in for the day that whatever we have, if it’s friendship, or love, or lust or the stuff of soulmates, I pray it doesn’t end. I pray I won’t fuck it up. I pray you won’t ever grow to hate me. I pray I will be a good enough person for you to always want in your life. I hope we can overcome anything and everything there will be to overcome. I pray we’ll always be like this, complete and utter balls dickheads.

If I could take all this feeling and bottle it up, I wouldn’t let anyone use it as a perfume, because it’s mine and mine alone. And you make it happen. Together with the frustrating moments when you’re just unreasonable and horrible, and I want to smack you and tell you I’m pretty and that’s all that you should care about.

If I could draw it for you, I would. If I could write it more accurately than this, I would. This feeling, this entire thing my heart does, when it hurts when you’re hurting; all this, this is now embedded into who I am as a person. Congratulations. You are in me. And not in a way everyone else has been in me, but in a deep (ha haa) meaningful way. There’s a reason the second we meet up I want to tell you everything, even if you’re tired or moody. I want you to know, because you validate me in a nonjudgmental way. Because you are everything I want and fear I’ll fuck up.

I’ve had this love before, baby. I’ve had it and it scares the shit out of me that one day it won’t be there anymore. Every single time you go passive aggressive, I get this feeling in my gut, like my entire life just drains away. And then I tell myself I can fix it. I can make it better. You can’t possibly understand what you mean to me, and how important this shit is.

And then there’s the fucking small things and the not so small things. I could write a book with our fucking stupid trips to anywhere really, and the way you knew I was upset so you bought me a perfume, because you knew I was completely out. And the lipstick, and the food, holy shit the fucking food. All of the food. And just the fact that you are tall enough that my tits fit perfectly under yours. And the way you do my hair, and use my shower and my shampoo (remind me to buy some, by the way). And that time on your birthday you wrote with a sharpie on my leg, which in turn meant that I shaved when I was drunk and long story short, I’ll have a scar that I’m gonna name after you. Speaking of which, the baby names. And dick talk and the way you just know what to do.

There are so many things I could be describing here, including the background of the endless lists of quotes I have everywhere. Just so no one forgets, “I can’t believe you hi-ed Gerard”.

But two particular things come to mine, and fuck off yeah, you made me tear up in the library. You said the most beautiful thing in the world yesterday, when you were using us as an example. Sidetracking, we are so married, it’s ridiculous. Like, we use our fucking friendship as an example for a functional relationship, which is astonishing, given our levels of co-dependency. But yeah, you said “If anyone took Jo away from me, I don’t know what I would do.” And I might have played it cool, and kissed the side of your neck and called you an idiot and whatnot, but every time I stop to think about something, I hear that in the back of my head. And it makes me happy, and it scares me as well, because you know how I’m not used to receiving gifts and have someone love me back in the same way and with the same intensity.

And then your fucking dream, and how fucking mental you have to be to dream that thing, complete with psychopath trying it on with me (check), and flying my fucking family there. But dreaming I was murdered wasn’t half as fucking heartbreaking as you not allowing my mum to take me to Romania, because this is my home, you said. And you taking my fucking ashes to Scotland, because Scotland is my fucking spirit animal. And your speech, and I don’t even care if you didn’t want people to know all this, because I am so overwhelmed someone cares about me like this. I am so desperately anxious and happy and terrified and proud.

I love you so much it makes me want to cuddle you at all times, while we eat pizza and doughballs (and you have milk, you freak what even) and watch shit on youtube.

And listen to Nicki Minaj, because we’re tasteless whores.

“You’re pretty!”

“You’re right!”

All of my love, drinks and Marlboros,

Jo

 

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