DP loves to wind me up. It keeps him amused or something. Today he made me listen to this just to see how long it would take me to blow my stack. Sixteen seconds. Strangely enough I like that he knows that this is going to send me over the edge. (He was appalled by the message too.)
One second you want to murder him because he said the wrong thing and kept you from
reading articles trashing Emily Gould and the literary republic of Brooklyn editing. Then he says something else and you’re giggling and you call off the hit. [Note from the Management: Indy Clause neither knows anything about murdering people nor does she know anyone who murders people.] Marriage is weird.
I’ve been reading a lot of “how to be in a relationship” posts because I liked the Good Men Project on facebook. Sites like that, Feministing, and Everyday Feminism give me excellent material to bring to the gender studies class. Sometimes the articles are insightful and other times they are stupid and trite and do not address how living with someone for the rest of your natural lives involves the alternating seconds of loving someone and wanting to kill them. Especially in January.
I still think of what A told me when I first moved in with DP. A and I have been friends since the beginning of time, and she married at 26. We were 31 or 32 when we had this conversation.
“[A’s husband] and I had been together for five years,” she said. “I thought I knew what I was doing, promising to love someone for the rest of my life. I had no idea.” As far as I knew A was happily married, so that made me think about how living with someone else is difficult even when you adore them.
But today I’m avoiding gender studies, as well as the man I married, to finish a paper on frogs, among other things. I’m going for a walk before it snows again (sob). I’m editing DP’s short story and hopefully working towards entering edits of draft 14 of the Fucker before I send it off to Beta Reader.
How many drafts is too many?