What do you even want anymore, Emma? It used to be so simple, the answer to that question. It's not difficult now - it's inexplicable. I don't know what I want. Bottom line, I want you. But what does that mean? You're you, I have you. But lately that doesn't feel like enough. I need something more than the routine we've entered. Small woes compared to what I endured just to be with you Before. But I don't know. It's all relative. And this new agony, this new boredom, is bigger than the normal tragedies I endure on a day-to-day basis. I'm growing weary of the fights. Last week, I was terrified of them. And now I'm bored. Help.
I love you. That's enough. Or it should be. But these fights, these half-fights are draining. You defend yourself, or don't defend yourself, in the same manner with every single incident. Perhaps I do too but I don't notice. Boredom is supposed to be frustration or anger in disguise. Am I frustrated? I need something new. Not the kind of newness and the way you spoil me when I've been upset for a while but the kind of newness that stretches beyond material things. I want you to talk to me. Am I angry? Maybe I'm angry that our conversation consists of me chattering on incessantly like a retard, you laughing at me and explaining to me the reasons why Metal Gear Solid or some other nonentity of a thing is not the best game in the world, contrary to what your abusive fellow YouTube members seem to think... Americans with no sense of humour, apparently.
And it's not that I don't find all that fascinating. I do, in some kind of way. I don't expect you to think that Wuthering Heights and the sexual exploits of my friends and the conclusions I reached while watching Skins for the third time are completely riveting. I miss when our conversation was new. I miss having something worthwhile to talk about. Even compliments are boring now. Which is sad. Which is very sad. But when you look me bang square in the eyes and tell me I'm beautiful, I still melt. And maybe that counts for something.
And I still try so hard for you. I think I might have given up for a while. But the world was against me. With a new vaginal infection as soon as I'd finished a set of antibiotics for its predecessor, and the breadsoda baths and the ugliness that goes hand in hand with inflamed nether-regions, I wasn't feeling very pretty and I wasn't acting very pretty. January isn't my month either. These January Blues that I never really believed in before have affected me more than I'd care to admit. But it's nearly over, the bout of melancholia will pass.
It might seem like I'm just making excuses for myself, for us. But if I don't blame my itchy fanny or the recession-induced, beginning of the year depression, then I'd have to say that maybe the end is nigh. And that is what I don't want.
I love you too much to give up on us, especially when I cry almost weekly, fearing you will, but I feel like something has to give. If I make it out of this month, all two and half days left of it, I'll be okay. And whether or not that means we'll be okay remains to be seen.