Fluffed and Folded
A year.
Normally this is the time where I start throwing my cake out in the rain.
There is an incessant high pitched ringing in my ear. Bruce thinks this is amusing.
He also finds my constant orders amusing. He says no an awful lot.
A year.
The brik-a-brak is still identifiably one of ours but has started to mix nicely.
Our books share a case mixed by type and subject, although I suspect no one questions who brought the Torah and who brought The Soviet-Afghan War. It’s nice that there are places where we almost overlap. There are more places where we overlap: Ikea in the morning, breakfast foods at dinner time, dark wood, clean glass, wikipedia for research.
That’s not to say that we don’t have our moments of sincere fuckitude. We certainly have plenty of that. We fight about lighting. Bruce is thisclose to blind and would like to import the sun into every room. I am in favor of low lighting with my perfect vision and would use the ambient glow from the television to read (which is how I do all my late night typing). I know it seems petty, but I think I might have a brain tumor and all that bright light really messes with my eyes. Okay, so maybe there’s no tumor, but whatever.
I recognize that I don’t know how I got here and how this is still a here. It’s not easy or logical, trust me, we’ve heard from plenty of people about the lack of logic of us, but on we march.
Bruce gave me a card. A first birthday card with Elmo. I think that sums us up perfectly.