Listen, Journal, I’m a psychologist, not a mind reader. If Ken doesn’t tell me I’m pretty or that I’m a good mom or that I cook a mean bowl of cereal, how can I assume that he’s thinking it? I can’t. Ergo, I walk around every day under the assumption that my husband thinks I’m a homely asshole. So whenever one of the extras in the movie of my life happens to throw an errant compliment my way, I respond like a drowning drunken coed who’s just been tossed a human floatation device. I cry and flail and smother that bitch.
