So, it’s like this: I’m 28 years old and live in the spare bedroom of a house I share with a couple 24-year-old dudes who host a web show called Nerdlocker. I spend the majority of my free time reading about zombies, writing about zombies, surfing the internet for “ideas” (read: “puppy videos,” “makeup tutorials,” and “girl-on-girl porn”), getting stoned, and playing online video games with a bunch of preteens whose first names I’ll never know. I don’t really need anyone telling me what a loser I am because I wake up every single morning fully aware of who I am and what my super irrelevant life is all about. Still, the few friends I have made in this god awful town (read: “Las Vegas, NV” or the appropriately dubbed “City of Sin”) are always more than eager to remind me of what a loser I am on an almost-daily basis.
What I’m getting at here is that I give exactly zero fucks. Because for some reason that is light years beyond me (that’s a lot, right?), I have managed to score this dude who is so on top of his shit he makes Martha Stewart look like a total assclown. I guess Martha Stewart is kind of an assclown these days, but I’m way out of the loop and you guys totally know what I meant by that. Also, my brain’s only half-functional right now so that’s as good a metaphor as I can conjure up.
Anyway, seriously…my boyfriend is so on top of his shit that he wakes up early on Sundays (his only day off) to go grocery shopping for the week. He does all that meal prep bullshit, he fills a blender full of frozen fruit and protein powder at night so that in the mornings he just has to push a button and his breakfast ready to go, he goes to the gym FIVE TIMES A WEEK MIN, and budgets a certain amount of his weekly paychecks to be put into a savings account “just in case.”
In short, my boyfriend is a fucking saint.
And for some reason he’s in love with ME.
ME!
A girl who may or may not have had a $5 bottle of red wine just called “blend,” one string cheese and two packs of Star Wars fruit snacks for dinner. (I did.)
And that’s not even the crazy part. Because the crazy part is this: That saint of a fucking dude who’s for some reason in love with me just suggested I quit my day job and let him take care of me so I can write full time and attempt to make a career out of what I love. No bullshit. That happened.
He says that taking care of rent, utilities, groceries, etc. would be his pleasure if it meant seeing me write every day.
Naturally, all I can do is cry about it. And I figured I ought to blog about it, because I don’t ever want to forget how good it feels to be loved so much by someone you’re so head over heels in love with. It’s awesome. It’s indescribable. I don’t know what else to say because truly there are no words in the English language that could possibly express how much you love this one person. EVEN THOUGH YOU ARE REALLY FUCKING GOOD WITH WORDS. WORDS ARE LIKE, YOUR THING. YOU HAVE A GOSH DANG BACHELORS DEGREE IN WORDS, AND YOU STILL CAN’T DO IT!! YOU CAN’T EXPLAIN HOW YOUR HEART STOPS EVERY SINGLE TIME YOU SEE THIS PERSON WALK INTO A ROOM. OR HOW WHEN THIS PERSON KISSES YOU ON JUST THE RIGHT PART OF YOUR NECK, THE WHOLE WORLD PAUSES, IF ONLY JUST FOR A SECOND, TO RECOGNIZE WHAT A MONUMENTAL OCCURRENCE JUST OCCURRED WITHIN THAT KISS.
That there exists another human being who could want to do so much—who could love me so much—is really, really difficult for me to understand. But that’s okay. I don’t need to understand it. Because I can feel it, and man does it feel good.
Oh, and P.S., he looks like this:
Pinch me, right?
#finally
