This is not a letter

This is not a letter. It is a statement of facts that I feel you must be made aware of.

Far be it from me to judge you for the choices you make. The people you choose to talk to even though I openly express my dislike towards them. Take Paul for instance, who is obviously a gigolo. He does it to get through school? I don’t care. I just don’t imagine that there is much else he can talk about besides women. If that makes me a snob, I’m fine with it. Miss fancypants too, whatever her name is. You’ve refused to see that she has designs on you. Which makes me doubt that you can see well even with those nerdy glasses. She wears pants that look like they might come apart if she takes more than a tiny step but she’s ‘nice’. Asks about me. Someday, I hope you realise she’s asking to know so she might jump on you at the slightest opportunity.

Then there are the habits you’ve refused to drop. Like stealing from my food while I eat, which I find especially irritating since there is always enough for two. You also take arguments too personally. I wasn’t really pissed the other day – even though I pretended to be. Unlike you, I don’t sulk.

The places you go to that I could never enter. Like that awful looking diner you claim makes the best burgers in town. Remember when I had eaten the burger with sighs of satisfaction in between bites not knowing you had gotten it from that ugly place? I don’t hate you for that. I also don’t hate that you can eat a mountain of crap and still look so good. When I comment on this, you say I look awesome. My argument still stands. If I eat like you do I’d be obese.

I don’t blame you for giving in and smoking nine days and five months after you had already quit. It was a rough day and I understand now. I didn’t at the time, made a huge fuss about it and made you feel awful about yourself. I’m sorry that I was difficult. However, I’m not sorry that because of that you haven’t smoked ever since. 1 year, 8 months, 15 days and counting.

I’m only a tad bit annoyed that your taste in clothes is better than mine. I remember the last time you went shopping with me. The sales attendants were in awe of you. How you knew what I shouldn’t pick and what would look fabulous on me. It really should have been the other way around. I wish I wasn’t so useless in that area.

You’re the god of clutter. You say that you are getting better but you end up wearing mismatched socks. Your reason being that half of each pair hides in the washing machine. I know better. I’m the Santa who finds those ‘hidden half pairs’ – in weird places – and matches your socks. I won’t say much about the cushions and the coffee stains on them. A result of your propping full mugs on them while reading.

They say actions speak louder than words. I’m sorry I’ve failed you in both departments. You with your thousand and one little gestures that make me feel loved. Sometimes flustered but always loved.

At first, this may not seem like the declaration of love that it really is. You must read again from the beginning because I want you to see that it is. Even though the words constantly elude me, I’m still in love with you. Coffee-stained cushions and all.


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