Love them, hate them, fuck them. Usually in that order.


We had a petty argument tonight over photographs. I asked you to take a picture of me under these gorgeous lights in the middle of the snow, and I hated how the pictures came out. And it just went from there.

Frustrations of the day boiling over into a loud argument in the streets. And I told you, with my throat tight, that the reason I was mad was because I've never had anybody in this life that wanted to take pictures of me. That you never take pictures of me unprompted. That every picture of me in my feed is a selfie, taken from the same pose, with the same expression always. And a thousand different beautiful pictures of you. I want everyone to see you the way I see you, beautiful, handsome, adorable. And I told you that it felt like you didn't care if anybody else saw me the same way you see me.

Really though, I was angry with myself, not with you. It's another of those frustrations that exist only because of how deeply insecure I feel, and how little I think of myself. I know you don't think about these things because you don't feel the same way.

Supplement: You showed me your mementos. The hotel memo from our trip to Malaysia. The little cards and tickets you gathered and kept along the way. The (horrible) picture of me you keep in your wallet. And told me this is how you remember. I love you.