It started out as loathing. I’m such a joker and you clearly were having a bad day. My charms were obviously misplaced, but all I really wanted was a light-up mouse. Can you blame me? You came around eventually, you did light up both my offices like Christmas trees, although, that might have been wasted on me.
On closer inspection, I wasn’t so bad after all. Of course that time I cut that cord and you had to fix it might have you disagreeing. You said I couldn’t just cut cords at work just because I was having a bad day and they were being inconvenient. I still disagree. Couldn’t and shouldn’t, after all, are different things.
That Windy City blew you a little south where I found you. A decade and a half senior to me. You took me to ballets, concerts, museums, and galleries. Seeing a Monet is no longer on my bucket list. Thank you. Never seeing Dave Matthews Band again has replaced it. Thank you.
You forever laughed at how I said things, bag, in particular. You and that grocery clerk were jerks. A decade later you still send me Midwest Siri for my birthday.
Your little girl made up goodnight llama kisses for me because I said, llama, llama, llama to myself so frequently.
You really didn’t like who I was and that was plain to see and you might be one of the only people who knew me.
You hated how much I worked, you hated how I wouldn’t talk, you hated how competent I could be.
You hated how I hoarded Chex Mix, you hated my family, you even hated my cat.
You hated that I was wild, you hated that I wouldn’t feel, you hated how I talked in my sleep.
You hated how I could see everything but what was right in front of me.
Although we clearly were not romantically meant to be, I know you don’t really hate me. After all, it is hard to find people to laugh with over such humiliating things. Best. Mini-break. Ever.
— The fug.