Saturday, 21 June 2014

Why do I love you?' by Tamara Jones

Why do I love you?  Let me think.
You never put anything away.
You let your dirty clothes pile up in corners where I don’t find them until you ask me where all your socks have gotten to.
You use my pens and never put them back where you found them.  And claim you haven’t used them.
You leave the milk out of the fridge.  And the butter.  And the cheese.
You never put rubbish in the bin.
You leave your tools lying precisely where I will trip over them.
You never finish anything.  The lawn is still under plastic, the greenhouse hasn’t got any guttering, the toilet still doesn’t flush properly and the septic tank keeps overflowing.
You need to be given a reminder list of presents to get for my birthday and Christmas.  In fact, you need reminding that it’s Christmas or my birthday.
You buy me pot plants instead of flowers, better value for money you say.  And only when you’re asked.
You fall asleep in the middle of massaging my feet.
You don’t listen to me and when I confront you on not responding, you plead being hard of hearing.
You are so pedantic you have to pontificate on every last detail, and you go all round the houses when you tell a story.
You’re so narrow minded that you are unable to make intuitive connections and get angry when I assume you’ve understood something I’ve said and you haven’t, you’ve just focused on one tiny irrelevant  aspect of it. 
You always automatically disagree with me, even if it’s something I know you actually think.
You always have to be right.  You always have to know everything better than me.
You are generous and you bend over backwards to do things for me.  You come running when I’m having a problem with the computer.  You immediately try and fix what I say needs fixing.  You wish you had the skills to fix me too.  You are happy to do things with me that would bore anyone else out of their brain, but because it’s what I want to do, you willingly and uncomplainingly come along.  You won’t watch sport on tv if I say no.  You turn down the volume when I ask you to even though you can barely hear the television as it is.  You put up with me. You want me to be happy.  You are still around and you keep telling me you love me, though god knows why.  I reckon that about covers it, don’t you?

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