- Advertencias: -
- Parejas: Frank & Gerard
- Capítulos: Único.
- Notas: Life will show you even the most insignificant flaw of your lover, for you to find out if you can really love him in spite of everything. That’s what proves are for, after all, aren’t they?
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Sooner or later, your lover becomes boring.
It always happens. No matter if you’re in a long-term, loving, sensational relationship; if you’re travelling around the world; if you’re the fucking Queen marrying a King or if you’re really, really in love. In fact, the more sentimentally involved you’re, the greater will be your disappointment. It isn’t a known equation, but it’s truly predictable, thought no one wants to find it out: in a certain point of your oh-so-perfect relationship, the romanticism becomes disgusting and you start to discover every little flaw, every unpleasant habit, every defect that the excitement of the first months didn’t let you see. And that’s, my friend, when you have to start worrying.
You’ll find out that your lover (yes, that one that seemed so clean and tidy) is actually a walking mess. That’s usually what happens. The little boy leaves his dirty underwear on the floor, because “He knows how to find them in his own disaster” (are you kidding me), and every time he takes a shower (if he does!) it looks like fucking Katrina struck your bloody bathroom. Wet towels all over the floor, shampoo and toothpaste covering the sink, and don’t make me start with the soap and the hair. Just yesterday, I found one of Gerard’s socks inside the toilet. No, I can’t understand how they got there, either.
He says I’m too obsessive. I say he’s too messy for my own comfort.
But no, my friends, the issue doesn’t end there. Things get worse. Life will show you even the most insignificant flaw of your lover, for you to find out if you can really love him in spite of everything. That’s what proves are for, after all, aren’t they? To show you the obstacles you’ve to go through, shake you up a little and, if you’re good enough, carry you to the lovely goal (…that, if you date someone like Gerard, will wait for you naked and eager to have happy sex).
Now, I would like to show you how the human mind works under the influence of love and its inevitable consequences. I wrote the following text in my travelling notebook, during a short tour around U.K.
I could spend my entire life with him. It had only been thirteen days and a half, and I already know that I’m completely, devoutly, irrevocably in love with Gerard. He’s everything anyone could ever want – smart, caring, fluent and (why deny it?) sexy.
Plus, he always smells good. He wears that big, fluffy sweater with little llamas on it, and I swear it’s the cutest thing I have ever seen. And his music! He has a lot of discs I’ve never heard before, and he knows a lot of weird facts about musicians.
Every morning, he wakes me up with a banana milkshake and a pack of cookies. He’s always worrying about my health, telling me to put on a scarf and enough coats to make me look like his “chubby little snowman”. I know, lovely.
I’m lying on the bed now and he’s kissing my ear. I hope we can make this last forever.
Ah, almost forgot. Sex is awesome, too.
I know, I know, don’t start laughing and throwing tomatoes at me. I was an idiot, okay? I was suffering the first symptoms of deep love. It’s something no one can handle right, so stop mocking already.
Now, the second part of this lovely text. This was written only a few days ago, after finding the outrageously corny statement above, and also after a year of dating Gerard. Here it goes.
(Quick note, just for the record: I know I’m not perfect. Nobody is. I’m just giving my point of view here, so don’t judge me. I’m aware that my boyfriend must complain a lot about me, too.)
Okay, I can’t stand at this anymore. Seriously. We’ve been living together since half a year, for Christ sake, and the man didn’t even unpack his stuff yet. I’m tired of him; my ears are tired of his constant nonsense. I’m tired of washing his socks and his fucking underwear. Most of all, I’m tired of washing that horrible sweater. One of these days, it will “get lost in the dryer”, I swear. It’s ridiculous, it itches and it has llamas on it. Bloody llamas. Why would someone wear a sweater with CAMELIDS?
And forgive me here, but if I hear just one more fucking curiosity about Michael Jackson’s life, I’m going to kill myself. Nobody cares if the boy’s favourite character was Pinocchio. NOBODY GIVES A FLYING FUCK. And maybe Paul McCartney’s and bloody Rod Stewart’s CDs are going to drown themselves in the dryer, too. Good music at first, but I’m already feeling like a menopausal woman. This house needs Metallica.
Oh, this house also needs to stop buying some fruits. I’m currently throwing up at the smell (or the simply thought) of banana and milk mixed together.
And Gerard, please, if you read this, would you be kind enough to stop dressing me? I’m not your baby, so don’t treat me like I am. I’m begging you here.
So, I’ve to run away now because Sir Way
…
…By the way, some things never change. Sex is still awesome.
I guess that gives you, little grasshopper, a clue of what I’m trying to say. I don’t want to spoil the party or anything – but it always happens, the advent of fucking reality. You discover that what seemed sexy is actually a little gross, or sickly romantic, or oh-my-God-how-did-I-even-like-this. And no, my friend, I’m not being all grumpy here, I don’t need a good shag (I have those frequently, thanks Gerard, he’s good at getting into my underwear), I’m certainly not in that time of the month nor I’m thinking on dumping my lover away.
Nor I’m thinking on dumping my lover away.
Yes, you heard right, fritters. The stage where flaws start to come up is probably the hardest, but, after that, everything becomes easier. You don’t need to assure your partner that you’re in love with him all the time, fights are almost inexistent and, the best part (being, as Gerard says, an ‘insensible jerk’) is that you don’t need to say oh-so-romantic things to carry your lover to bed. You just say ‘I wanna fuck’ and he’ll answer ‘Wishes are orders, my captain’.
At least, that is, if you’re dating someone as gorgeous as Gerard.
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