| |
|
*sigh*
That you have, for as long as we have known you, subsumed your identity almost totally into Spike. That you are incapable of discussing anything, to the best of my knowledge, without mentioning his name and, where less than totally irrelevant, his opinion. That this whole confession thing is, at best, an opportunity to use somebody else as a way to offering another perspective on your relationship with Spike, and at worst a desperate plea for him to treat you as anything other than a twentysomething woman prepared to turn up, have sex with him, cook for him and not demand too much or he can just withdraw affection and leave you totally eviscerated, and to stop taking you for granted, rolled into a tube, shoved into the neck of a bottle and thrown into the none-too-concealing waters of Barbelith.
Unless I misread Nick, this may have been a part of what he was hinting at, but was far too nice and polite to mnention, and as such his appeals were totally ineffectual. We're not talking about a tendency for romantic, Byronic self-destruction. We're talking about dire suburban self-abnegation, a very different and far less interesting experience.
Essentially. |
|
|
