It’s not my fault you’re ill. I didn’t sneak the cold virus into your food or anything like that. It’s not my fault that you’re tired. You came in from work at 5, and I had dinner on the table ready for you. You spent the evening, until you went to bed at half past seven, generally complaining about stuff – and wonder why I don’t listen.
It wasn’t my fault that I didn’t hear the cat scratching to go out for a piss. It was only half past nine and I had headphones on to help keep the noise down because I am respectful of your decision to go to bed early. Just don’t expect me to join you.
When you got up, I offered to take the cat down and let him out. But Martyrdom set in and you did it yourself, then complained that I didn’t do it.
Don’t slam doors and think I won’t say something or do something equally childish. You slammed one, pissed off because you wouldn’t let me help you, and I slammed one. Tit for tat.
Don’t come storming into my sanctuary and hit me. Doesn’t matter it didn’t hurt. If I hit you, you’d be on the phone to the Police or your Dad to complain. Don’t EVER hit me, for I would never hit you.
Don’t then cry and wonder why I’m ‘stony faced’ about your door slamming and physical assault. You are tired, you say? Heed my advice and get back to bed.
Don’t tell me to get out your house unless you really mean it. I DO have somewhere, many places, to go. Don’t go down that road unless you have the guts to finish the journey.
Don’t tell me to ‘not come to your bed’, because, baby, that’s an easy one for me to deal with. And, it’s MY bed, k? K.
I know you’re worried about stuff. And I try to allay your fears and apprehensions all the time. But sometimes, duck, you just gotta deal with it.
So deal with it.