You are scary. Seriously.
At times, your mood swings are violent to give me Bella-esque whiplash and I often want to scream at you to just stop feeling things.
Cats and Netbooks make good heaters.
You also possess a frightening amount of either determination or stupidity; you with your dogged determination to survive no matter how much life tries to put you in your place and your equally obstinate belief that for some reason that isn’t your place.
What is wrong with you?
What happened in the blurry recesses of our shared past that convinced you that you deserved whatever it was you wanted? Was that a miracle of parenting gone right, or the result of a spoiled childhood filled with cheese puffs and tomato sandwiches cut into quarters?
Precious little has escaped you: you tap away blissfully on your iPhone, battle monsters on your gaming console and walk around your asteroid with the blissful abandon of a person living a charmed life.
And now, in the face of yet another horror, you curl up with your beautiful cat and happily munch the Oreos your sweet and faithful boyfriend bought you.
What. Is. Wrong. With. You?
People in your position are supposed to feel panic, anger, hopelessness. The only negative feelings you entertain are tummy aches from one-too-many cookies.
You amaze me.
And you terrify me.