Also, the other day, I cooked my version of Honey-mustard-BBQ-garlic Beef + Capsicum. Honey Mustard BBQ because I used a Hunts sauce to add to the mix. It turned out okay, but comparing to previous dishes served, I was told it was not at par with the Citrusy Salmon I made last time:
This is what you get for falling in love. You get to be obsessed, slightly nauseous, like you’re on speed but better because the comedown doesn’t happen for a long time. You get to have something or someone to look forward to, something more than a new episode of your favorite TV show on your DVR. You get to have the privilege of knowing someone beyond their tweets or stupid, ridiculous Facebook. You get to know what turns them off, what turns them on, what makes them yawn with indifference. You get to know that their dad is an asshole and that their mom was once sick with cancer and that things are sometimes strained between them during the holidays but then they all get drunk and it’s okay for a little awhile. You get to know someone beyond the context of going out and getting drinks. You get to know someone at 2 o’clock in the afternoon on a Sunday when they look like shit and are totally boring to be around. Like, they’re just watching TV and they feel no pressure to entertain you. They’re just being who they are and you’re there to witness it. It is dull but it’s also, in its own way, exhilarating.
You get to share your life with someone and invite them to participate in the most arbitrary decisions of your life. “Chicken or fish tonight?” “Vodka or gin?” “Doggie style or missionary? “Baby or no baby?” You get to be inspired to be a better person, to be the type of lover who knows how to really care for someone. You should want to protect them from everything that’s bad. You don’t want to be the thing they need to be protected from. No no, they’ve already had that, they’ve already been burned. You want to be the best partner, an antidote to all the other lackluster ones they might’ve had in the past.
You get to know that if you ever died alone in your apartment, your body would be discovered shortly thereafter. It wouldn’t be left to decay and ultimately be found by your landlord. You get to know that you really affected someone’s life. You left an indelible mark. They will never be the same after you. They will cry, cry, cry in your absence. It all sounds so morbid but, I don’t know, it feels so nice knowing that you have the ability to leave someone grief stricken once you’re gone.
You get to go on vacations and screw all day in some hotel room. You get guaranteed sex, the kind of sex that you know and love and are sometimes bored by but it’s okay because you love them and a little boredom never hurt anybody, right? You get to drink too much at dinner and have someone put you to bed. It’s better than passing out alone, isn’t it? You get to see new things with a partner, revel in fresh experiences together, Instagram photos of you two smiling near a waterfall and be too in love to worry about being cool. Only single people have time to care about maintaining the perfect internet persona.
You get to be a goddamn brat. You get to push the wrong buttons and kick and scream, and trust that you won’t be penalized for it. You get to test their patience away, run them against the wall, be an overall insane crazy person, and still be forgiven.
You get to say no. You get to say yes. You get to say screw you. You get to be okay. You get to be safe. You get to be in love.