I've noticed I've been drinking more recently, working out less.
I'll be honest, I'm depressed.
I feel trapped. I feel forced into something I feel less and less every day, but will have to deal with for the rest of my life because I still care enough about his feelings.
He loves me. He worships me. He needs me.
He would probably kill himself if I broke up with him.
He's dependent on me to provide a home, a mode of transportation, to clean up after him and keep his laundry folded and his dishes clean.
He's dependent on me to keep his mind off of his tragically awful last relationship, and how it ended.
I'm absolutely old enough to have and want a husband, and I don't mind doing the duties that come with the territory, but when I have to remind my boyfriend to change his underwear, I start to wonder where I acquired a son who is only one year younger than me.
This morning piqued this little rant.
I got out of bed this morning, hunted around for my robe without my glasses on, got my water bottle, and started up the stairs. A moment later, Mike shoved by me, proclaiming "Gotta pee" and pushed into the bathroom ahead of me.
Um, ladies first?
To make matters worse, he didn't just pee, so when I got my turn at the bathroom, I had to hold my breath to keep from gagging.
Not exactly how I wanted to wake up...
But it wasn't just nasty, it was rude.
Hannibal Lecter has killed for less.
I'm alarmed by the amount of nasty I'm aware of in him, now.
We went to Chick-fil-a last night, despite my wishes to go to either Red Lobster or Olive Garden, and I ordered a sandwich, no butter, and light lemonade.
I get back from the bathroom and ask him what he's gotten, and he says "Four chicken sandwiches". "FOUR?" I squeak, praying I've heard incorrectly.
And he wolfed down two in the car, and two in the movie theater, each with two packets of mayonnaise apiece. 2360 calories.
Ugh.
He's so heavy.
Enclosed within is the world's worst sex story. I swear.
Do not highlight this lightly:
(We were having sex the other night, and his awful cheesey-potato soup-grapefruit juice-gin breath was nauseating. He kept kissing me, and I had to lock my jaw to keep from turning my poor nose away.
But then his encroaching stomach started crushing the breath out of me, and combined with the awful skunky kisses and the amount of gin I myself had consumed, I started to feel like I was going to throw up.
"Please... please, do me from behind" I begged, whined even.
"Oh yeah? You want me to ******** you..." He starts going again, slowly. He actually thinks being slowly crushed to death is turning me on. I see his stomach bulging between my thighs, in and out... I'm pinned. The puke-breath is blowing down on top of me, and I can't move.
"Oh yes, please, PLEASE!" I'm swallowing rapidly, desperately trying to look sexy and keep a biting of my lip looking lustful instead of panicked.
"Okay, roll over, dirty girl."
And I think everything's going to be alright, until the sweaty swell of the underside of his stomach settles into the small of my back, and I realize I've just forestalled him for another 15 minutes, and I think I know what hell is.)
And on that note, I need to make a drink.
I feel ill again.
View User's Journal
Rot With Me, Lover.
 |
Mesic
Community Member |
