Monday, November 21, 2005
suffragette.
blogging from my parents computer always makes me want to put The Cure lyrics in here.
we had a The Fight a few times before i left. "fight" is the wrong word, but calling it a disagreement or a conflict or some other hippie word makes it sound like i'm trying to avoid saying fight, and also i do sort of feel like punching his lights out.
here's the thing. i don't want to be that girl who gets pissy because that guy won't "commit." it's not that. or if it is, it's the very underneath part of that--the germ of truth that gives rise to those stupid sit-com plots about obsessive women with good hair and men with nice teeth who quake theatrically when approached by a ball and chain. it is not about married.
but it's time for a fundamental agreement to be in place. when someone is the love of your life, it is time to stop acting like you have an out. when every element of your relationship reflects its for-life-ness, it is time to stop reserving your right to take unilateral action and flip the bird to the United Nations. decisions get made together. people compromise. no one sacrifices their identity, and no one makes a decision that leaves the other person royally shafted. or miserable. or sick. this is as basic as it gets, and you are acting like i'm trying to take away your toy train, your penis, and your capacity for independent thought.
why you would not move heaven and earth to safeguard the part of your life that's responsible for more joy than anything before or since, that is beyond me. and why you would insist on entertaining no possible plans for the future other than staying in this city knowing that it makes me sad and crazy, this is also beyond.
we have this The Fight about every four months, when something happens to remind me how much i do not want to live here, and i say so, and the monkey gets very quiet and is unable to say anything other than: i can't say i'll be ready to leave in the next few years. or: this makes me uncomfortable. or: i feel like a heel. recently, i asked him if he was aware how much this attitude had begun to sound like the dad standard my-way-or-the-highway.
and he said. well. i guess it is.
i think you feel like a heel because you are being a complete asshole about this. requiring that we stay here when i can't get a job to save my life and cry every week so that you can live your dream of being a waiter while you wait for J0e Mantello to call? ass. refusing to discuss other options? ass. acting like it's even possible that i could leave and you'd have an okay life?
ass! my friend, i love your socks off, but your life would suck so bad you wouldn't know where to start. you told me recently that we were so good that everything before me felt like practice. we make plans for our old age. we have a mortgage. you miss me when i'm gone for six hours. i am required by your life exactly like you are required by mine.
and if i am getting scared, it's not because i have doubts about the you-and-me, but i have thought more than once over the last week that if you are so unwilling to claim this thing that landed in your lap, you sort of deserve to lose it. or at least see what losing it is like.
so i let you know that i'm going away to spend thanksgiving with my family, but also to think some shit out. and i'm not calling while i'm gone. and i believe you when you say you're lonely; i'm lonely, too, except lonely doesn't feel so gut-wrenching when you are this angry. i loved my visit to providence. i loved Br0wn. if i get in, you bet your ass i'm going. i love you and i love us, and i was considering going with a lesser program to stay in new york because i thought it would be better for what we're building, but now i think: i am not going to lie down in front of The Stupid Truck while you have a party.
all i ever asked for was a say. and for you to treat me like something you love. i hope you're thinking. i hope you're thinking hard.
we had a The Fight a few times before i left. "fight" is the wrong word, but calling it a disagreement or a conflict or some other hippie word makes it sound like i'm trying to avoid saying fight, and also i do sort of feel like punching his lights out.
here's the thing. i don't want to be that girl who gets pissy because that guy won't "commit." it's not that. or if it is, it's the very underneath part of that--the germ of truth that gives rise to those stupid sit-com plots about obsessive women with good hair and men with nice teeth who quake theatrically when approached by a ball and chain. it is not about married.
but it's time for a fundamental agreement to be in place. when someone is the love of your life, it is time to stop acting like you have an out. when every element of your relationship reflects its for-life-ness, it is time to stop reserving your right to take unilateral action and flip the bird to the United Nations. decisions get made together. people compromise. no one sacrifices their identity, and no one makes a decision that leaves the other person royally shafted. or miserable. or sick. this is as basic as it gets, and you are acting like i'm trying to take away your toy train, your penis, and your capacity for independent thought.
why you would not move heaven and earth to safeguard the part of your life that's responsible for more joy than anything before or since, that is beyond me. and why you would insist on entertaining no possible plans for the future other than staying in this city knowing that it makes me sad and crazy, this is also beyond.
we have this The Fight about every four months, when something happens to remind me how much i do not want to live here, and i say so, and the monkey gets very quiet and is unable to say anything other than: i can't say i'll be ready to leave in the next few years. or: this makes me uncomfortable. or: i feel like a heel. recently, i asked him if he was aware how much this attitude had begun to sound like the dad standard my-way-or-the-highway.
and he said. well. i guess it is.
i think you feel like a heel because you are being a complete asshole about this. requiring that we stay here when i can't get a job to save my life and cry every week so that you can live your dream of being a waiter while you wait for J0e Mantello to call? ass. refusing to discuss other options? ass. acting like it's even possible that i could leave and you'd have an okay life?
ass! my friend, i love your socks off, but your life would suck so bad you wouldn't know where to start. you told me recently that we were so good that everything before me felt like practice. we make plans for our old age. we have a mortgage. you miss me when i'm gone for six hours. i am required by your life exactly like you are required by mine.
and if i am getting scared, it's not because i have doubts about the you-and-me, but i have thought more than once over the last week that if you are so unwilling to claim this thing that landed in your lap, you sort of deserve to lose it. or at least see what losing it is like.
so i let you know that i'm going away to spend thanksgiving with my family, but also to think some shit out. and i'm not calling while i'm gone. and i believe you when you say you're lonely; i'm lonely, too, except lonely doesn't feel so gut-wrenching when you are this angry. i loved my visit to providence. i loved Br0wn. if i get in, you bet your ass i'm going. i love you and i love us, and i was considering going with a lesser program to stay in new york because i thought it would be better for what we're building, but now i think: i am not going to lie down in front of The Stupid Truck while you have a party.
all i ever asked for was a say. and for you to treat me like something you love. i hope you're thinking. i hope you're thinking hard.
