Man, the post I started writing Saturday before our ride to mexican fast food breakfast was a bit dire, a bit depressing and a kind of sobering reflection on his drunk words. Like many of you, we don’t have a perfect relationship, and he fucking drives me insane a lot of the time, and a lot of the time he loves me even though I am acting crazy. A dichotomous take on a duality we seem to possess in our relations to each other, I suppose. There have been a few times I have thought, fuck it, I deserve better, though those times aren’t too many and are really not rooted in some absurd abusive situation in our relationship.

This man and I can talk about anyyyything and I am serious ANYTHING. I can count on his agreement on most matters of the heart, most matters of conscience because he does have the core of my heart and even cries sometimes when I am not–I mean the tears of joy for other people and moments of reflection I see him have sometimes. And he is smart as hell and keeps me calm when I am trying to bust apart machines or anything else I am not mechanically inclined enough to comprehend. And though he is mean as hell sometimes, he is also fiercely loving and protective of me. Those closest to us holding spots where the wounds could be mortal, yuppp.

Generally he is reasonable though these utterances haven’t been around as frequently in some time, for a time they were fucking abundant, and I was just trying to exist without being offensive to other people. And clearly, that’s sometimes a job better suited to other people, as I have failed a few times. But I can say this–I don’t have enough hate in me to fuck with anyone else really ever at all. I could never find joy in the manipulation of others and I would have no reward to motivate me to fuck with people like they tend to do. Lying to make myself look better, not something I tend to do, as it’s clear I can admit my fuckery when I need to, and assign blame when it belongs to other people. In a relationship between two, it is never one person’s entire responsibility to hold the sanity or stability of a relationship in their hands, though you better believe I am not going to throw some fuel in terms of shitty behavior into the mix. I am not that bored with things to create drama as life has thrown enough my way–I could never ever be bored.

Plus, when you are bored of yourself and your perspectives, there are legitimately endless books and stories and I have read maybe 7 (300 page suckers) over the past few months and to be honest–that therapy is better than any money I ever tried to fork over to anyone. IN NYC, you just have to try a shrink, and with the heart stuff, yeah it seemed like the thing to do but nothing anyone has ever said has taught me more than reading what’s in someone else’s head. I am sure there are good therapists, I saw my share, but I can also admit I remember none of their damn names or a single thing any of them have said to me. But the wounds of books, the wanderings and musings, the lessons are all congealed in a malleable ball of my person. sitting up there to draw inspiration and whatever the hell else I want.

And that should absolutely have the more you know rainbowing jingle attached to it. Because, books, books and books hold the answers to all of our problems, quite literally. Book therapy is therapy we could all use.