Dear Man of mine,
It has come to my attention that you are in need of a little advice. Apparently, you don’t understand the art of pacing yourself. I can see clearly why you ended up burnt out. You started too soon and did too much. At fourteen you were too old for Little League but you spent all your time trying to get on first base anyway. You begged, pleaded, and offered up teddy bears holding stuffed hearts for the chance to actually touch a little cleavage. Meanwhile, my daddy was telling me to steer clear of first base, to stay off the field all together, so you really had to work for it back then.
Then sixteen came along and we got cars, and you spent all your energy trying to get me in the back seat. You got a job after school bagging groceries and loading feed into pick-up trucks just so you could afford dinner, a movie, and since I was so boobaliscious I even got little gifts from the mall like the little silver necklace dangling a heart I wore for so long thinking it meant you loved me. Don’t worry, I don’t expect an apology. I know now that it wasn’t really love, you just wanted to bury your face between the twin peaks. It’s okay, I can appreciate your admiration for the girls. I’m not saying you were wrong to love them, I’m just saying you spent way too much time and energy trying to see them. You should have relaxed a little bit, enjoyed our time together more. Continue reading
Constant Confessions 