It means caring

I wish people wrote more. I have this list of blogs that I generally like to peruse; some because the writing's good, and others because they're the lives of my friends. I love to read and to know that people still experience things in life. Short of having a different cup of coffee every 10 minutes with a different friend, this is a nice way to keep up with someone. I only wish that every one had the time to write more.

Although...sometimes I wonder if it's just me. Maybe I write too much. Maybe I read too much. In the end, I just want to share.
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The below was absolutely, positively, unabashedly and unauthorized-ly stolen from Lexxy-Pie. A friend of a friend, and a hell of a writer. This post of his was understood, and I just wanted to share...

The ex-girlfriend, or Ex-Girlfriend, I saw her friend last weekend, and it was almost the same as seeing her, and I stayed up all weekend in a remarkably melancholic mood, one of those moods that just hit you and then a warm Saturday feels like a rainy Wednesday, know what I mean? It doesn’t have that Saturday feeling anymore, because Saturdays aren’t supposed to be that poignant.

She slept happily, which sounds weird, or like I’m trying to make a big deal out of something small to be poetic, but I’m not, so she slept happily, with a grin of satisfaction that I never fucking have. She slept happily, and that’s now a trait that I look for, besides a fine waist-to-hip ratio, which she also had. She slept at midnight, like clockwork, and I’d grab a book from the bookshelf in her closet filled with books I’m actually interested in. She read good books, or rather, she read books that I thought were good, and that’s now a trait that I look for, besides bangs and a sort-of disproportionately large head, which she also had.

I would pick a book, Douglas Coupland shorts one time (ugh), I think DH Lawrence another, and I distinctly remember some quick-read chick-lit novel about a fat cow of a woman, all of a sudden waking up thin and beautiful, and all I can remember is that she gave a construction worker a blowjob on the way to work because he threw a cat-call and she decided to answer, and I thought to myself, this isn’t so bad for chick-lit, it’s exactly what I would do if I woke up a beautiful woman, I’d be a complete whore.

I’d read with three-quarters of her body on top of mine, and by the time I finished she’d have rolled to the other side of the bed, a little sweaty but still happily, and she’d keep a hand or even a finger on me somewhere, like I’m her anchor, when I was really anything but, probably the complete opposite of what an anchor does, maybe a sail? Attached to nothing and with a big, gaping hole?

I would fall asleep at 5am.

She would wake up at 7am, shower, change her clothes, do her makeup and then walk over to the bed and look over at me and say, Honey, I’m going to work, what time should I set the alarm to? She knew I woke up at 11am, but always asked anyway. Sometimes I’d groggily awake and give in and say, 11am, have a good day, dear. Other times I’d wrap my arms around her and lock them, and she’d never try to fight, she’d never say, I’m going to be late. She’d lie there on top of me in her work clothes and makeup and just give up, like she never had a chance anyway, and I still wonder, if I never let go, would she never have left? Really? Like she’d just lie there on top of me for three hours? A week? Four months? Really? What kind of insane person is this, to let me hold her back from her job like this? An anchor, probably.

Other times, I would pretend I was asleep and ignore her. I don’t know why.

I would wake up at 11am, watch an hour of Judge Judy, Judge Mathis, then subway home. Work a little, hit the gym. At 8pm I’d be at her place, and we’d cook dinner, and we’d eat it with her brother and his girlfriend, who felt like our children sometimes, even though they were closer to my age than I was to her’s. And then prime time TV, or maybe a DVD, or maybe camp out at the bookstore for a few hours. At 11pm, we’d be back in her bed, and at midnight she’d sleep happily, three quarters of her body on top of mine, and I’d be reading Margaret Atwood or Murakami.

Last weekend, the friend of the Ex-Girlfriend asked, “Why’d you break up with her?” but not in an inquisitive way, she was really asking, “Why would you break up with her?” I never have an answer, or one that makes sense to anyone but me, anyhow.
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Love never makes sense.