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Dear Roomie,
Right now, I hate you. Because it's all about you. Always. What's convenient for you. What's easiest for you. What you want or need.
I know my wanting to go to Outback Steakhouse in a wheelchair-accessible cab means we have to wait twenty-four hours. I know you want to go today. I know my fear of cars is irrational and a pain in the ass, but I didn't come by it until you pulled into oncoming traffic and treated me to the horrifying and eternal vision of an old Pontiac barreling down on the passenger side. I used to sleep in the car before my two accidents with you, don't you remember? Now, every time I get inside one, I'm convinced I'll never get out again, and my lunch always tries to abandon ship.
I pay for your food and your clothes. Whatever you want, I find a way to get, even if it's a fiscally bad idea. I leave the house even when I don't feel like it, because I want to make you as happy as you make me when you're not an entitled prick. I let you shriek at me for taking thirty dollars of my own money and transferring it into my Paypal account. I even freeze to death at night in deference to your conviction that the heater will set things on fire. There is nothing I don't or won't give you.
Except the car. I can't give you that. Because you're not the one who can feel the bones of her knee grinding away, and who knows in her bones that the next wreck will be her last, that her neck will withstand not one collision more. If my bones break, there will be no setting them right. It's my bugaboo, whether you like and understand it or not.
So, though I love you, roomie mine, go fuck yourself.
Right now, I hate you. Because it's all about you. Always. What's convenient for you. What's easiest for you. What you want or need.
I know my wanting to go to Outback Steakhouse in a wheelchair-accessible cab means we have to wait twenty-four hours. I know you want to go today. I know my fear of cars is irrational and a pain in the ass, but I didn't come by it until you pulled into oncoming traffic and treated me to the horrifying and eternal vision of an old Pontiac barreling down on the passenger side. I used to sleep in the car before my two accidents with you, don't you remember? Now, every time I get inside one, I'm convinced I'll never get out again, and my lunch always tries to abandon ship.
I pay for your food and your clothes. Whatever you want, I find a way to get, even if it's a fiscally bad idea. I leave the house even when I don't feel like it, because I want to make you as happy as you make me when you're not an entitled prick. I let you shriek at me for taking thirty dollars of my own money and transferring it into my Paypal account. I even freeze to death at night in deference to your conviction that the heater will set things on fire. There is nothing I don't or won't give you.
Except the car. I can't give you that. Because you're not the one who can feel the bones of her knee grinding away, and who knows in her bones that the next wreck will be her last, that her neck will withstand not one collision more. If my bones break, there will be no setting them right. It's my bugaboo, whether you like and understand it or not.
So, though I love you, roomie mine, go fuck yourself.