B is for boyfriend

Dear Boyfriend,
        You should know by now how much I love and adore that beautiful face of yours. That gorgeous stupid face sends me flip-flopping directly over the goddamned moon.

I'll never say this to you... ever... but I've even written some really terrible poetry about holding your hand. Yeah, I'm pretty fucking ashamed. But you send me. You honestly do. (Thanks, Sam)

There is just one thing.

One tiny little thing. 


YOU ARE THE WORST COMMUNICATOR ON THE FACE OF THE PLANET AND IT MAKES ME HATE YOU.

I get a little crazy. I do. I end up getting way too drunk, way too emotional, and end up passed out in my laundry hamper.
(Okay, so... typically... I don't get overly attached girlfriend emotional, unless I'm already laundry hamper drunk. The previous statement is for dramatic comedic effect. I'm not actually that crazy. Promise.)

You live 659 miles away from me. It takes me 2 hours to fly, 11.5 hours to drive, and it would take me a little over a week if I wanted to follow the example of a late 80's pop song. But texting? Calling? It's the power of the future, my friend. Use it.

It's how you know someone loves you, they care about your day and what happened inside the parameters of the time it takes the earth to complete a rotation cycle. In every other respect you are near perfect to me.
But when we don't talk? My anxiety flairs up. I start wondering:
Does my monkey not love me? Did my monkey find a different monkey? Maybe with thicker hair and a smaller waist? Did he find a funnier monkey? Maybe one that likes to smear rust and whale fat on her face and takes pictures of herself smiling in all her beautiful monkey glory? 

And it kinda makes me want to pee in your shoes. Because I'm not that girl. Normally.

Listen: I get you have your own life. I get that you can't talk to me every second of every day. I totally respect that and, honestly, I would hate it if you tried. I love you but I can't move across the country for so much snow and a boy that never calls.

Love,
Kendra