My Sorry Ass

To add to the illusion that is my excuse for avoiding risks and keeping loved ones at an arm's length I find myself picking fights. This is not new. In high school, my sweetheart bought me pink tulips, my favorite, and made me a mix tape complete with a list of all the reasons I am special and loved. I cried. We took pictures and got fancy. At dinner I explained to him that buying love is not tolerable and how I had seen him flirt with that same waitress the month before. When he reacted with disdain, I of course did the girl thing, made a scene about him being a cheating bastard ass and left. When I called him the next morning I was very sorry and proceeded to apologize into the week that followed, and the next four years.
I am still sorry and I still pick fights. Not as frequently, mind you. But enough is enough. I am tired of kicking my own ass for stupid things I might have said the drunken night before (Yes it is true. I am a lush. Are you new here?). I hurt feelings and I hate hurt feelings. I say silly mean things to the people I love the most and I make outrageous assumptions, accusations, and assertions all based on my fear of loss. It is that same old sob therapy story. The dad leaves, the girl never loves again, blah blah blah. But it' s missing a middle and an end. The chapters are incomplete and mispelled. It is a mess. I am a mess. For those I love it becomes a convincing route to take on the way out. I am driving, pushing, cussing out the only good in my life, and for what? For nights alone with the cat and Law and Order? No.
For those of you I love: Next time I pick a fight with you, know that I just love you that much. Then kick my ass. Shut me up, and leave me in my fuss.