And there are dates which are meaningful, which mean something. You forget them sometimes, and it's okay, because I forget them too. Dates like August first, or July or June or any other first, are important, so are the fifteenths, because we want to have heat and roof and bags of green tomatoes and red onions to fry and grill and chop.
So sometimes money is more important than love.
And sometimes there are even more important things like making sure to work hard enough and look like a go-getter, to go places, to fill spaces, own the room, get out of the box, climb the ladder, drink the corporate Kool-Aid, things I never expected to do, but some principles of youth were dissolved by necessity and industry. And to then come home and takes a few hours to remember I am in a loving place. And even then I can't love as much as I'd like, because tomorrow it is back to the Ministry of Humorless Irony, to serve the Secretaire de Sade.
This is just complaining and about an easy life by most standards. I will keep typing with two spaces after the words and apologise about it all the time. I will be driven crazy by spell check but refuse to properly spell. I will pick fights and feel guilty for getting my madness on you. I will pack and bang the dishes. I will run you off to the woods for a week in the rain to pretend at a life that is complete and untarnished and set lightly on a fulcrum between the valleys of Delight and Rest.