I don’t think you quite comprehend the exquisite torture you put us through. One day everything is cuddles and Netflix and by the weekend there’s a man-shaped hole in our bedroom wall. What the hell? What have we done to deserve this?
Alright, we get it. You have a life. You’ve got shit to do. We do too, but how hard is it to send one text message? Just one. That’s all we are really asking for; acknowledgment of our existence. When you don’t, we try to be patient, usually. But the fact of the matter is that when you don’t give us attention, it becomes obvious that we are not on your mind, nor are we any kind of priority. Then when it becomes convenient for you, suddenly you are sending more texts than Amanda Bynes during a manic episode. We try to distance ourselves from your game. But goddammit, we really like you, so we get over it.
Until it happens again. And again. Almost like clockwork, we know that we won’t hear from you in three to seventeen hours, and it hurts. What have we done wrong? We aren’t all crazy girls, calling you every hour and showing up at your door at 1am. Then we feel annoying and desperate when we send you one extra text, after already waiting a day and a half. It’s a trap, and we are sick of it.
Then one day we wake up to your morning text, and we breathe a sigh of relief. And there is even a smiley face. You must still like us! But it is short lived; a mirage. You are only half-real, we can never reach you when we need to. We go over all three texts you have sent in the last 24 hours. Analyze them until we come to some sort of anti-conclusion where we become just as confused as we were before.
This isn’t a fucking magic show. We are getting bored, and you might lose us. You want to keep us on your hook, to always to ready at your beck and call. Like we are so eager to hear from you that we will jump into your arms at the first sign of contact (Okay, sometimes that happens.) But one day, I assure you, we will be done.