STIFF UPPER LIP
No, no, and that third one is entirely a moot point at present.
Obviously, I'm going to have to time my crying jags and fits of emotional disturbance better. Can't have the girl finding me screeching on the kitchen floor next to a bottle of whiskey too often.
She worries about me, about her siblings, and about that man.
[That man: Him, wheelie boy, the thing in her life, it. Whatever we choose to call her current flame. The man she discovered after she dumped me. The masculine entity who will NEVER come up to the apartment she and I still share because his wheelchair doesn't do hills. Hah!]
She always worries about other people. And I wish she would do so less. Some of us can actually function. And, with effort, overcome our little problems.
It's just that there are times when we have to recline gracefully on the kitchen floor in a fetal position wailing our hearts out and warding-off bats.
Think of it as poetry. Or performance art.
I really wish she hadn't seen that. I wasn't expecting her home so early.
And really, I'm fine. Totally. Just still digesting the collapse of my emotional foundations. It takes time. Trust me. You did it for several months BEFORE you broke up with me, and you hid it very well.
I'm doing the same thing, but in reverse.
There are times when certain things hit me. There is nothing you can do about that.
Nor would I want you to. Emmes & echt.
I want you to be a happy person.
Which is also one of the reasons I would have preferred that you hadn't found me on the kitchen floor.
And that doesn't represent the kind of person I am.
I'm normally such a happy guy. La la la la la!
[[Please imagine joyous baritone singing at this point. Something in mediaeval Latin.]
There are just certain times when I have to indulge the gloomy depressive Northern European inside. He's such a pain.
I'm sure you must have had that too.
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