Love in the time of PDA

I wrote what I thought was a minimalist love letter. Then I read it again and realised the inaccuracy of my attribute would put our hot art teacher to shame. So maybe it's not a love letter. Too.. not-vulnerable-enough? But in parts it sounded to me like a decent build up to one.

(P.S: At least it doesn't start with Dear fatso comma. And I don't have a pillow I can push behind your neck to make you more comfortable but here's a thought: let the manly la-la-la-laa! play in the background and tell me if the song - let it buff - finishes before the post does.

~

Tide's turned. Tide different from tables. You became accessible. I became a doll. You seem to have noticed that I am, once again, energetic and stupid and jovial and unafraid of being an ass in front of you; pushing your chin up with my palm to irritate you so you can't see straight ahead even though all that is straight ahead is a crappy outlet of Angels in my Kitchen.

I hadn't done this in a while because I became allergic to you. You became my beetroot. I started wanting to spend time away. I didn't want to make a plan. All I wanted from you was to be left alone.

And you were patient. I still think you were off the mark assuming this is what happens when people don't channelise their energies into finding a job and instead chat shit and act superior ALL THE TIME. So no thank you for that.

And because every pro has a con and I cannot let you remain a hydrogen floating balloon, you were also insufferable and dour. All your bread-anda-cake talk still makes my skin break out into hives. I still can't deal with you being so serious when discussing a fucking piping bag! We have to do something about that. My patience has been running thin and I know you want the curves back. But how about you hang on to me (till I say otherwise) for the simple rationale: there's trash out there. Out here we have a history of bad jokes and milestones of issues gotten past.

I have no idea how you and I have tolerated each other. Maybe I was terrified of not finding anyone as tall as you. Maybe I was scared at the thought of starting from scratch. Maybe it was the jinx of the last post I did on you -- you know, the anniversary one. The oh you're so sweet, arent' you one, the one I'm not linking to, the maudlin-filled, pass-me-the-puke-bucket one.

But you are so sweet, aren't you? Why else would people who I am friends with but you've met only twice call to ask you (and not me) about a good dentist in Gurgaon. You have that karmic, helpful vibe: I'm the man. Ask me. It works on you. It works for you! You're too earnest to be cool but again, maybe that's not a total washout.

The last year has been horrendous. I have been horrendous! And unfair. And in the wrong. I have wanted to hit you. And run away. You probably have, too. Thank you for not whacking me when you probably should have.

I have made so much fun of you just because and for no other reason that AT LARGE I am better and quicker and smarter at making fun than you are. This is nothing to be proud of, you say; no, actually, sometimes it is a bloody handy skill! I am nasty and belittling and I'm sorry. But - important- I don't want to pretend I don't know what happened.

I didn't know it would make such a huge difference to me and my attitude towards you and this rickety bloody relationship, but, gasp for air, it feels better. I feel better. I am happier. I am especially light. My prized metaphor -- the istri (iron), the dictionary and the brick on my heart? -- it's relevant no more, okay. All gone. I have had a face lift of the innards and you are my good surgeon!

All I'm (also) saying is thank you for not being a dickhead.

Thank you for making me my origami frog. Now give me back my coloured chart paper back (at Rs 5 a sheet, what kind of economy are we running?!) so I can make nothing more complex than cards out of them for people I care about because as established, you're the artistic one. Not me. Yea yea. I should stick to spouting gibberish and correcting your English. I even got over myself and re-subscribed to your blog, c'mon!

As much as it is my turn to start accepting you, the only pound of flesh I ask in turn for this glorious public paean is that you get all that obnoxious air drumming immediately out of your system for at least the next eight months. But do it behind my back. Please! Then we'll talk.

Love,
La-la-la-laaa..Ulysees