I picked a fight. And boy, was it lovely.
Yes, it upset me greatly during the following drunken hour. Yes, he might think I am now completely cooked… although, how he did not know that from within the first few minutes of meeting me midwinter when I attempted to tip half a bottle of tequila down his throat…
…Do I care what he thinks? Nope!
The boozed midnight call a few weeks too late let me finally say what I wanted to. Inserted in my two dirty cents. I articulated my disgust and disappointment for what had transpired between us, mainly through much use of the word “fuck”.
The next day I felt great. I now was ready to delete his number.
One ALWAYS should be allowed the space to put in your own point of view. Even if you are eventually forced to take it. Even if it is slurred, too late, and is reminiscent of those gothic women running about attics in English midland mansions.
Some French psychologist once theorised that it is the father’s role to protect the children from the mother’s female madness.
I take great enjoyment in that theory.... I feel more assured that sometimes it is only moments of irrationality that will allow one to better live into one's life.