Listen. I don't care.
Maybe you were teased for being fat when you were little. Maybe your last boyfriend was a lot more attractive than me. Maybe you were molested a couple times by your father. It's irrelevant. I don't care about that stuff.
Just let me love you.
Deep down, I knew we would hit a speed bump somewhere. But we have a good thing going. I'm a listener. You're a talker. You're also a cryer, but I can look beyond that, annoying as it is. I let your words run through my ears like rain through a storm drain. They're full of dead leaves and cigarette butts and styrofoam cups. It's hard, frankly. I don't want you to let it all out, but I let you, because I love you.
Seriously, where is all this attitude coming from? I have a bank account and it's full of money. You know this, because I've bought you cute dresses and shiny things. Who doesn't like shiny things? I thought you loved shiny things. Much like how I love using baby oil to massage your beautiful chest. You shine, baby. There's nothing wrong with you.
Please, stop crying.
I don't know what to do when you get like this. I know it's not my fault, and you keep telling me it's not my fault, but you make me feel like it's my fault. You think you're not good enough for me? That you'll only drag me down; you're not worth the time and effort? Well I know that already. Yes, you're a sack of crap. But I'm trying to tell you that that doesn't matter.
I'm not asking you to change. You don't have to see things the way I do. All you have to do is be there, and maybe not talk so much. And stop crying. I don't need to know why you're crazy; that's your therapist's job. What I need is you. Just, gorgeous you. Preferably naked. That's not too much to ask for, is it?
So let's do away with all the complications. It's alright that you're emotional, but that's not what this relationship was founded on. I told you from the get-go: I just want to love you for your body. So just let me keep on loving you. Physically.
Now get your ass in the car. We're goin' to Del Taco.
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