Odds are, if I have your number, and you text, we aren’t speaking right now.
Odds are, if you can breathe, I can piss you off.
I hoard take-out menus.
I ask stupid questions.
I need lots of reassurance.
I get extremely upset over the most ridiculous and minuscule things.
I hate Saturdays.
I am not antagonistic on purpose (usually).
I don’t understand.
I don’t have the words. I write and write and write in search of the right ones.
Please forgive me.
I’m just as frustrated as you are.