Jul 2014
I can’t remember birthdays.
I can’t remember anniversaries, the first day we met, or even when our next date is. I can’t remember anything if it deals with numbers (unless there’s a particular reason for that number). My brain works like an office; there are papers scattered everywhere but with my slight case of ADD, I can’t figure out what papers belong to what. In the corner though, there’s a gray filing cabinet that’s been chipped in just all the right places. Inside this filing cabinet, I keep files like that. If you pull out my mother’s file, it’ll have her birthday on there, her anniversary with my father, and it might even have the names of all of her children (I couldn’t be bothered to remember my own siblings’ names). I never look at these files unless I really need to—that’s why they’re in a filing cabinet. It’s a place to store information that’s not useful to my every day.
I have characters in my head that sometimes, I think are real. They keep me company when I’m alone in my room at 4 in the morning, writing out their story. I can change anything I want about them; I can change their hair colour, their personality traits—I can even change the way they walk. You shouldn’t date me because I’ll hide behind these characters; they’ll become a part of me and I’ll start being a part of them. They’ll become my excuse for why I couldn’t spend the night with you last night—“I needed to finish my story”—why we couldn’t go to the park—“I can’t walk and write”—why I couldn’t have dinner with you—“eating takes too much time away from my writing.” If you want to date me, you have to date my characters too.
I can’t prioritize. If I can’t remember your birthday, how will I be able to remember you? I’ll remember the way your hair smells right after a shower (and I might even have one of my characters smell that way too) and I’ll remember how you looked on your first day of work (you have never been more professional) but I won’t remember what your face looks like the day you decide to walk away from me. I won’t hear anything other than the screaming of our first fight and how there’s a vein that pops up on your neck when you get angry. I can’t remember to bring you to my coffee dates with myself and I won’t remember to call you to say good night. I’ll end up saying good morning to you when it’s 3 in the morning and you’ve come looking for me since I haven’t found you.
Don’t date me because I can give you nice gifts. I’ll always remember your favourite colour and the way you laugh at puns. I keep these things in the front of my mind: what makes you smile, what jokes you like, and insiders that only you and I understand. I’ll bring you Sleepless in Seattle with four bars of Hershey’s chocolate when you’re on your period; I’ll carry you on my back after a drunken night of karaoke and beer. When you can’t sleep at night, I’ll put my hand in yours and shake your arm, as if telling you that I’m your reality and your nightmares are just dreams. Your medication will be counted out to the exact dosage when you’re sick—I’ll always have a cup of warm hot chocolate right beside it too (since I know you hate tea). I’ll keep all of this in mind while I create presents to give you on days I can’t remember.
I’ll know exactly when you wake up to go to work and what time your boss will let you come home, but I’ll still forget to bring you roses on your birthday.
I can’t remember anniversaries, the first day we met, or even when our next date is. I can’t remember anything if it deals with numbers (unless there’s a particular reason for that number). My brain works like an office; there are papers scattered everywhere but with my slight case of ADD, I can’t figure out what papers belong to what. In the corner though, there’s a gray filing cabinet that’s been chipped in just all the right places. Inside this filing cabinet, I keep files like that. If you pull out my mother’s file, it’ll have her birthday on there, her anniversary with my father, and it might even have the names of all of her children (I couldn’t be bothered to remember my own siblings’ names). I never look at these files unless I really need to—that’s why they’re in a filing cabinet. It’s a place to store information that’s not useful to my every day.
I have characters in my head that sometimes, I think are real. They keep me company when I’m alone in my room at 4 in the morning, writing out their story. I can change anything I want about them; I can change their hair colour, their personality traits—I can even change the way they walk. You shouldn’t date me because I’ll hide behind these characters; they’ll become a part of me and I’ll start being a part of them. They’ll become my excuse for why I couldn’t spend the night with you last night—“I needed to finish my story”—why we couldn’t go to the park—“I can’t walk and write”—why I couldn’t have dinner with you—“eating takes too much time away from my writing.” If you want to date me, you have to date my characters too.
I can’t prioritize. If I can’t remember your birthday, how will I be able to remember you? I’ll remember the way your hair smells right after a shower (and I might even have one of my characters smell that way too) and I’ll remember how you looked on your first day of work (you have never been more professional) but I won’t remember what your face looks like the day you decide to walk away from me. I won’t hear anything other than the screaming of our first fight and how there’s a vein that pops up on your neck when you get angry. I can’t remember to bring you to my coffee dates with myself and I won’t remember to call you to say good night. I’ll end up saying good morning to you when it’s 3 in the morning and you’ve come looking for me since I haven’t found you.
Don’t date me because I can give you nice gifts. I’ll always remember your favourite colour and the way you laugh at puns. I keep these things in the front of my mind: what makes you smile, what jokes you like, and insiders that only you and I understand. I’ll bring you Sleepless in Seattle with four bars of Hershey’s chocolate when you’re on your period; I’ll carry you on my back after a drunken night of karaoke and beer. When you can’t sleep at night, I’ll put my hand in yours and shake your arm, as if telling you that I’m your reality and your nightmares are just dreams. Your medication will be counted out to the exact dosage when you’re sick—I’ll always have a cup of warm hot chocolate right beside it too (since I know you hate tea). I’ll keep all of this in mind while I create presents to give you on days I can’t remember.
I’ll know exactly when you wake up to go to work and what time your boss will let you come home, but I’ll still forget to bring you roses on your birthday.
