If you see Princess

WARNING: The post below is inordinately mushy. Read at your own peril. You have been duly notified.

Forgive this estrogen filled mush puddle. In fact, it’s my blog. Don’t forgive. Close the page if e worry you. First it was “The Sushi Burger” (read here) and now this. I can’t apologize but I do  intend to compensate: my next write up will have more gore than Bill Clinton’s vice. Yes, I made that dumb a** joke. It’s all the pent up mushiness joo. I am slightly ashamed to admit I like to write mushy from time to time. Someone observed that it was my way of getting in touch with my feminine side. But honestly, if I wanted to errrm touch my feminine sides any, I could always grab me man-boobs. (Yes. I popped another dumb one. Someone save me from myself!)

What you’re about to read is borne of a conversation I had with a friend about relationships and expectations and breakups. I felt inspired to ramble and ramble I did. Errrr… enjoy?

*******************************

If you see Princess

*******************************

Apparently, I’m not the perfect boyfriend. By God, I thought I was. While I was single, I thought my future girlfriend would be the happiest thing alive.

A few days nights ago, I left mine weeping.

I really thought I could be perfect though. I really did. Not because I was that cool, but because she was so deserving.

But now it’s all annoying… because the crazy chic didn’t even want my perfection. It now appears clear to my stupid stupid head (which I have smacked countless times in the last few days) that she just wanted me: warts, farts, barfs, gaffs and all.

Maybe if I’d figured that out, I wouldn’t try so hard to be the most awesome bomb-edness…

It’s weird how all those sh*t clichés come to play such important roles these days…

Like “Love is Pain.” Okay, ESPECIALLY “Love is pain…” These things we NEVER understand till we fall truly and deeply in love. While I have loved her, I have been in pain. Always been in pain. Because I know that she can hurt me. I am vulnerable to her touch. Her smile. Her wince. Her moan.

And her pain was mine. Is mine. My stomach still twists when I remember the sound of her sobbing over the phone.

“Honey, are you crying?”

“What are you saying? I’ve been crying since…” She’d wailed.

That last sentence sent me crashing down. To depths only matched by bereavement…

And we were a quirky pair. Other couples walked on the beach in picturesque fashion. Once, we lay down on my ageing mattress and played Hangaroo on my computer. If you’re not familiar, Hangaroo is a game where you answer 10 fill-in-the-alphabets questions in order to free a foul mouthed Kangaroo from an ominous noose. Every time I got a question right, I got a kiss. Not the English kind, I promise. I have never wanted to free that potty-lipped, vile beast more.

She cooked for me only once. It was so cute how she was oh so self-conscious about it. Tasted fabulous to me though. Maybe I was in love. Maybe the pancakes really kicked ass. Bottom line, I enjoyed it. I enjoyed her. Enjoyed her for whom she was; what she stood for. Even though half the time, we weren’t in agreement. And ours was not an expensive venture. It never has been. I don’t know why. Perhaps I should check her passport and confirm her nationality. Surely she can’t be ALL Nigerian???

You know your head is messed up when you love to hear someone whine. I’d just sit and chuckle while she ranted on the phone for twenty odd minutes about her relatives. Then I’d tell her it was fine and that I loved her. And then I’d secretly pray her Aunt went cuckoo again so that we could do it all over.

She is stunning in my eyes but I don’t dwell on that as much as I dwell on her scent. And how I give her goose pimples when I nibble at her nape. In truth, it takes quite a bit for me to regard a woman as beautiful. I can be a douche like that. I set high standards. Not that it’s a prerequisite though; but I set them anyway… She beat them all. No she didn’t actually. She wasn’t competing. She just set her own and made me flush with admiration.

So how did we get to the point where I made her wail? Another saying: ” na small shit dey stain pant.” But really, it’s the little things that hurt the most. I was… insensitive. I can only write this because I’ve stopped kicking myself. as for that evening, I could have worded that message sooooooo differently. I now realize my ass is something for sitting, Not for talking out of.

Any regrets? None. Really. Because I gave as good as I could. Whatever I did wrong was done because I knew no better. Not for want of trying. I never aimed to hurt. Never to cause pain. Yeah yeah… but I did anyway.

Previously, I used to think that if I loved someone but was causing them hurt, I ought to let them go. Nah. Call me selfish. I’d rather just be a better man dammit!

So if she’ll have me back, I’m not going to be impeccable or devoid of blemish. I’m just going to be all the rubbish she used to love before I farted through my mouth that day . Won’t even try. If I said I would be, that would actually make me seem even less so.

If you see Princess, help me tell her I’m not ready to be perfect… but I’ll be more than willing to be hers.