dear j.

Dear J.,

I love you, but you are too much for me to handle eighty percent of the time. You talk too loud, you walk too loud, you look too loudly, you think loudly, you sit loudly, you are a loud person, and it makes me feel shouted at when you walk by so sometimes I need to cover my eyes and ears when I see you.

You also make me question my love of physical intimacy. I thought I was a huggy person, but I am nothing compared to you. Why do you kiss me on the  cheek or the hand when you tell me I look beautiful? If you were a man that would be cause to sue, darling. I know that’s how you show affection, but I wish I could tell you to stop without crushing you. Though you are so resilient and self-possessed I wonder if I could.

Stop touching me. Stop kissing me. Stop coming in when I’m working to spend half an hour telling me how your computer is having trouble. You are good for a laugh, even if you don’t know what Game of Thrones is (really? and you’re British, tut tut). When I want a good loud laugh (in an area where it’s okay to laugh raucously), you are my first choice. Well, almost first. Honorable mention, at least.

J., you are a wonderful person, with a dynamo personality and enough charisma to drown a small city council. Keep stamping on, friend. Carpenter boots and all.


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