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January 29 - January 29, 2024
“Does Jack happen to be short for Jackass?”
A mess in every way. Someone must have made her see herself that way, and whoever it is, I hate them.
“And I don’t need to live a little. Work. Family. Cats. Books. What else do I need?”
But my problem isn’t that I don’t think. It’s that my brain only has two modes: think everything all at once and make sense of none of it, or think about one thing obsessively at the expense of whatever actually needs my attention. The point being, I am always thinking. Just never about the right things.
“Aithníonn ciaróg, ciaróg eile,” he says. “It’s an Irish proverb. Roughly translated, it means, One beetle recognizes another.”
I stare at my phone, but the tears blur my vision so that I can’t even do this small task Ollie has asked of me. I’m over it. All the little costs of having ADHD that add up in the long run. Lost customers. Overdue bills. Replacement phone chargers. Time spent looking for things. The way it makes me feel, like a child. As if everyone else is a real adult and I’m just pretending. The frustration that I can’t do the simple, everyday things that most people can. Like laundry, and making phone calls, and remembering to take out something from the freezer for dinner. It’s the missed deadlines for
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“I want you to think the best of me.” He lifts his gaze to mine. “Please, always think the best of me.”
“Níl mé ag iarraidh go dtéann tú.”
“How can you think you’re too much, when I can’t get enough of you?”
“I am explicitly giving you my enthusiastic consent to do unspeakable things to me, provided they are sexual in nature, of course.”
“We should’ve done this sooner,” she says when I kiss my way across her chest to her other breast. “I wanted you to invite me over the night we met so we could do just this,” she says. “I’ve been thinking about it every night since we met.” “I wanted to invite you over,” I murmur.
