My life in the moment (and let’s be honest, for the last year-plus) is a complex triangulation, between:

1) what I can legitimately afford,
2) what will theoretically make me happy, and
3) what will theoretically make you happy.

The whole point of driving over would be to try accomplishing the last part in the context of the first two.

Right now what I’m hearing is: Not good enough, Liony.

‘If you really cared about making me happy, you’d shut up and do like the fam hivemind planned out for you without asking you about it, and bunk at the Colonel’s like a good boy‘.

No, sorry. That’s not happening.

It would do unacceptable damage to principle 2.

And I’ve already damaged principle 1 way more than is even sane.

So … just no.

The love abides, unchanging.

And, at the same time: I care less and less every day about what you think is best for me, or what I should do. I believe you less and less, about what those things even are. I may have quivered and doubted myself and trusted your judgment more than my own once upon a time, but …

I’m done being judged.

***

If what you’re saying is that me driving over would actually make you Unhappy, then fuck it, there’s no point at all in that.

Until I hear that clearly, though, I will go on living my life as best I can, by my own standards of what’s good for me, and I’ll get up early on Sunday, and drive to where you are, and if no one’s home then I’ll hide your birthday gift behind the screen door and get back to the Leaden Base which bathes in the evil hiss of the Interstate, but is all mine, for as long as I continue to be sure and have the funds to pay the mortgage, on time, every month.

In all due fondness, and In Real Deep, I remain

L.