Monday, April 23, 2012

three years

Friday marked a smidgeon of recreational relief from an otherwise really tedious week.

A week feeling cold and grumpy, due to nicotine withdrawal the quashing of addictive demons that haunt my dreams. And fuck me up.

I wasn't at it alone, the Brit also slipped off the wagon with me, which turned into a vicious circle of blame and co-dependence. (What do real addicts do? As in, what do couples who met at crack rehab actually do?)

Anyway, we are back on the strictly no cigarettes-are-allowed-within-a-ten-mile-radius-of-our-fidgeting-hands thing again. How did this happen?

This is how:

1) I put Nicotine on a restraining order.
2) I went to the pub
3) I unrestrained the Nicotine

So the result? Not going to a pub for two months. It's the only way I can kick this back into shape. It means certain death of my social life. This is Britain. People practically use pubs like they use their living rooms. Social life is unreservedly fucked until I am confident about habit being abolished.

The Brit says he can handle the pub. And not smoke. To be fair, he's better than me. He doesn't want to lash out and de-scrotinise people when he is withdrawing from the monster.
He might want to throat slam their faces into a table; I want to do that and yank on their scrota.

Anyway, so no pub for Peas. For a few weeks.

A small break from this happened on Friday it was our three year anniversary.

Because ours was a relationship spent long-distancing for the first year, we celebrate our anniversary from the first time we met. (As in, "Hello my name is Peas.") Because the lines are so blurred otherwise, and dates fail to be really important.

Three years! Me and my little Brit, from that one wonderfully gropey night, to Skype, to me moving to England, to us moving into our own flat last year. We've certainly had an interesting adventure. It hasn't always been easy, but it's never been dull.

The Brit took me to a lovely little (Poncy! Saucy!) French restaurant in Soho, followed by a show.

Perfect evening out in London. The show was a production by four dudes who do random, obscenely crude (my favourite!), toiley humour-style (my favourite!) skits on stage. All completely random - like pretend they are all singing toilet seats, as one example.

The Brit is my precious. I love him for so many reasons, (cute face, nice ass, mathematical genius, hilarious, big heart), but one of these is also because he loves me.
For a long long time I didn't think I'd be worthy of such affection again. ("Long" meaning literally years and years, so during that time made myself useful in other ways, rather in ways I was apparently incapable.)

So imagine my surprise when it did happen all accidentally. So yes, he's my precious.


Anonymous said...

Awwww :)))

Sweet man, can't believe it's 3 years already!!! Wow that means I've been reading your blog for maybe 5 years or more hey? Can that be, weirdddd.

Congrats on the 3 years :) From the sneak peek I get into your lives you guys seem to fit so well together, two peas in a pod, and you look so nice in pics together. Just a perfect match :)


Flarkit said...

Dawwwwwhhh... A man who takes you to a toilet-humour show for your anniversary is a keeper! :)