AN: Because I was angry.

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Love

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I don’t get how you can honestly just tell me that I’m falling out of love with you. I don’t get how you can tell me about my emotions based on the way that I’m speaking. I can be mad at you and still love you; I can be sad and still love you.

Don’t fucking tell me that I don’t love you anymore, because it’s bullshit.

Okay, maybe I don’t see you as much as I did before, but you know; I have a job now. I have fucking work to do, and it’s not my fault that they schedule me to work when you have free time. And, you know, maybe I don’t talk to you in the same way all the time—but you have to realize that I’m more and more tired and frustrated by customers each day.

Maybe it’s not right to take it all out on you. Maybe I’m a bitch, I don’t know. I probably am. But the thing is that you knew this before we got together. I never hid it from you; I came right out and told you. But you didn’t give a shit then, so you shouldn’t give a shit now.

I’m just trying to say that you’re being an ass. I have a life outside of you, hard as it is to believe. I was alive before I met you, and I think I’ll go on living without you; I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine life without you. We’ve always talked so damn much about growing old together that I can’t imagine any other life, I guess.

But you know, just because you’re my boyfriend, it doesn’t give you the right to tell me what emotions I may or may not feel for you. Because it’s all a load of shit. Nobody can tell me what I feel except, you know, me. Nobody can tell me whether or not I think you’re great except—guess who?—me.

I’m not you, so stop acting like you can read my fucking mind. You can’t. I don’t even understand what the hell goes on in there half the time.

I just don’t get it. You sit there and act like you’re the shit, like you own the fucking world. You sit there and you tell me that I don’t fucking love you. Then when I flip out, you try to tell me that you didn’t do anything wrong?

I’m not you—get over it. You don’t know how I feel. If I don’t do a good job of showing it, tell me that; don’t tell me I don’t fucking love you, because yeah, I kinda do. And yeah, I still love you. I’m just kind of pissed at you right now, so maybe you should wipe that fucking smile off of your face and listen to me.

Just a fucking thought.

Yeah, I don’t know what love is. I have no fucking idea how to sum it up all in a bunch of flowery words without ruining the world’s most beautiful freaking sentiment. But I know that it’s different for everyone, because wouldn’t it be so damn boring if different people all saw love as the exact same thing?

Maybe I think that putting a smile on so that you’re happy is more loving than pissing and moaning like a whiny bitch. Because at least with the first way, one of us is fucking happy, and seeing you happy makes me happy; it’s a nice circle. If I piss and moan like a bitch, nobody’s happy and we both mope and cry all goddamn day, and that’s just not a nice feeling.

Don’t tell me I don’t love you, asshole. Because I do. I want to be your fucking wife someday; I want to make love to you and have children and live in our nice little house with a white-picket fence. We’ll get all the freaking dogs you want, and maybe a cat for me somewhere, I don’t care.

Just put a goddamn smile on your face and stop telling me that I don’t love you. That makes me feel like you don’t love me back.

(But I don’t go fucking telling you that, now do I?)

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AN: I was in a bad mood. I wanted to write, to vent; this is not necessarily true. Some might be, some might not. I don’t know. That’s my real anger, I guess. All the swearing and the rambling and the repetition and how nothing makes any sense and there’s no flow; yeah, that’s me when I’m mad.

I don’t really have anything more to say for this one. I wanted to post something, so here I am. Posting a nice little angry ramble/rant about “love”. I hope anyone who reads this enjoys it, and if not; sorry. Thanks for stopping by anyway.