It's good to have inside jokes. For me and my wife C, those inane pieces of information that know one else gets are in steady supply. I could tell you all about how we came up with the concept of the crazed vampire manatees, in their speedboats seeking vengeance, but I think that's best left to wandering minds.
Actually, I couldn't tell you. But somewhere in there was something about chocolate super spy laxatives. Inside jokes are all about being happenstance and not so much the end result, anyways.
Our relationship is the weirdest thing I've ever personally heard or read about. I'm talking about when I write it all down and read it again later. When I go back and see the ways that we interact and interact now. The hows and wheres and whens all conspire with each other and try in vain to give way to the whys. It all seems so random sometimes.
I think that I like being by myself. Maybe.
Today, I woke up at 10, went back to bed, floundered around in my underwear, played a mindless but entertaining video game, tried to get to the gym, listened to music way too loudly, sipped on warm Gatorade until the wavering heat of the afternoon started to tell me it was much, much nicer outside.
Gatorade always makes me think about when I was young and pathetically ill. That was the only time Gatorade was ever in the house. I drink it more often now without an accompanying ailment, however the Lemon-Lime flavor always brings flashbacks of fever and phlegm.
The video game of choice was Alien Hominid. It's probably the most violent and carpal tunnel inducing game that I own. Even though there a setting to turn off the gore, I don't let the monkeys play this one. Come get me you FBI mofos I can take your heat. And your spaceships. Bring it.
I'm stuck right now, in Area 51 against an electric wielding foe. It's what I get for trying the Medium difficulty setting.
I could blame all this behavior on the strangely mild but ominous stomach flu type thing that has been plaguing me this weekend. Or the lack of other beings in the house to answer to. But I know better. Even though my responsibility to be present has somewhat been lessened, I find myself down the street in my wife's presence still more than anyone else. This weekend we were pretty much sick together, switching off to who was feeling better with toxic burps, diarrhea and keeping the monkeys from playing dodgeball with kitchen utensils.
She asked me a bit ago when I fell out of love with her. There's a kicker of a question if I ever heard one. I couldn't answer her. Because I don't know. I should know but I don't. Maybe I never did. Maybe it's always been a different kind of love. Perhaps I'm just a madman.
So then I don't talk about it. If ever you have a conversation with me and I am silent, it's because I like you and I'm trying to think of the best words to put together but there just aren't any that are suitable. It drives her crazy. She says I need to communicate better with those that I may wish to have any kind of relationship with. Easier said than done. Except in my case it's easier done than said, though. Sans the easier part.
Even with all this freedom, I feel all the passion draining out of my life slowly. My confusions about social interaction are turning me slightly asexual. Lately, I haven't the desire to be with anyone in the palm-sweating romantical type fashion. I don't want to seek out dates or debaucherous nights on the town. I mean, I do, but I don't. You know?
No, I imagine some of you don't know.
But then, she doesn't either. She's familiar, she's what I know about my experience with love. She's a safe haven. She's comfortable. She's a friend beyond obligation. I wish that I could be what she needs in all respects. I just want to be able to please people. That is all.
Currently it's my turn to be nauseous. Time to go drink some more Gatorade and go to bed.