For No One Else But Me

First, press play on this song:



Dear Eric,

This little post is for me and me alone. I know there's slight chance of you ever reading this, because you say reading my blog is like reading my diaries and it seems weird and intrusive for you to hover over my every thought. Plus I read my posts aloud to you every night so I know that my point gets across to the end reader clearly, because, even 12 years later, I still think I cannot write for shit. Then you bust in on my little writing-pity-party and remind me that I can, in fact, write - that I can actually articulate my thoughts into words.

There's these weird little things that I love about you. Like when you started writing me notes on post-its because it was the only thing available for you to write on at work. I have all these three and four page post-it letters of thought that you, in the spur of the moment, in the middle of working, you just jotted down. Thank you for not sticking them on my forehead while I slept, because when you started doing this post-it project, I thought, if I had originally though of this idea, I would have stuck them on your head while you slept.

You started this art project in me. These weird little quirks, like your epic post-it notes, make me think of art projects. It's why our bedroom wall is quickly filling up with small, square notes written to each other. God help us if we ever move.

And who else can I be a jelly with? We hop around the living room wiggling mid-air screaming at each other "You're a jelly? I'm a jelly too!" We look insane to the outside world, and only we understand why being a jelly is important.

When I said I had nothing to paint, you told me to paint something I would have never considered painting before. You said to give it my best, and then leave it alone. So I painted you an Action Comics comic book cover. Then I painted some more comics, and then some more. And through that, I found my style. I was going about it all wrong. I was trying to copy the Masters, concentrating on learning their ways and putting off finding my own until I mastered theirs. You flipped my whole view by suggesting that I paint outside my comfort zone. You also changed why I paint. Now I master a series of paintings, antique comic books, then robots, and now the Lennon/McCartney series, I give it my best, and then I leave it alone. I move onto my next series.

Sorry I never just take your suggestions. I'm a dreamer, and you're a black-and-white person. You say "tomato" and I say "James and the Giant Peach!" To me, those two things are related, to you, I am just screaming out random shit in response to your suggestions. The prime example would be this blog. I ask you what I should write about because I am out of ideas. You suggest I write about how you had to almost saws-all my arm out of a hollow-core door that one time I got angry and put my fist right through it and it got stuck, and instead I write about how I always guess Narnia when you ask me where I think you are located presently.  To you, those things aren't remotely related, but to me, they are intimately related.

You laugh and accept me after I answer your question of "what do you want to do Saturday?" and I respond "Finally learn to play the piano." I know you were really just looking for an answer like dinner and a movie, but then you say "By God Anne, you can do anything. Look up where you can take lessons!"

You talk. And I don't. And I know everyone you have ever met has hated the fact that you talk so much, with the grand exception of me. You know I just like to sit and listen to everyone around me. That right there is entertainment to me. You're the only person I have ever met who didn't ask me every 15 seconds if I was ok because I wasn't joining the conversation. You know that I am ok. You know that I will tell you if I am not ok. You know how to read my "not ok" looks. You know if I hold your stare for a second, then look at someone else, and then look back at you and tip my head down, it's my signal for "this guy is a motherfucking dick can we leave?" and you make an excuse and we make good our exit.

You take over for me when it comes to reading things I cannot read - like compasses and scrolling marquees. If we pass one on the street you read it out loud. You also don't tell people why you are doing that - you do not advertise my dyslexia to those around us. For that I am eternally grateful.

You order me top-shelf Vodka and navigate to the bar through throngs of people so I don't have to. You change the vacuum cleaner bag so I don't have to. You bought me a plant to keep me company while I was unemployed and you were at work. You pose the dolls so when I come home from work I laugh. You bought me a chocobo bank because I thought it was the cutest thing ever. You go out with me for sushi even though you hate it. You hold my hair back when I puke. You squeeze my hand right before the plane starts the landing descent because you know that's when I am the most scared. You remember that my favorite flower is the carnation, and you buy them even though the ladies at the flower shop always look at you like you're cheap for buying carnations. You still buy me roses too just because they're roses and for no reason other than you thought I would like them. You remind me when my library books are due and to return them. You let me take drunken pictures of you drinking a beer and holding a potato, and thus making fun of your heritage. You never make fun of my heritage. You have never read my diary. You make me think, and you make me re-think. You care too much what people think of you, which makes up for the fact that I do not care at all what people think of me. You know I secretly do wish people liked me more.

But more than all this, you love me. And I love all these things about you.

Love,

Your Annabelle