17 THINGS I HATE ABOUT ALYSSA

When she drinks, she gets really flirtatious. Really flirtatious. I was sort of little drunk myself, but I think at their anniversary, she came onto her sister's husband. And her sister. And their son.

She says she's quit smoking, but she really hasn't. Most of the time, she's off the weed, but sometimes, she comes back from work, and I can smell something, and she won't tell me what it is. Not that she needs to tell me. I know.

She works for the Devil. Or the Man. Or the Military/Industrial Complex. I'm not even sure what they do, but it's clear that BarriCorp is involved in some serious corporate dealings that are NOT for the betterment of mankind. Granted, as an HR benefits representative, she's not much involved in chemical pollution or building a better bomb that burns people and not dollars, but still, it's a bad scene, man.

During Hallmark commercials, sometimes, she cries, and when I ask her to tell me what's wrong, she only snuffles and says 'nothing.'

She laughs at me when I talk about old girlfriends, as if I could never have known anyone before I knew her.

I have never known anyone as wonderful as her, and she knows it. And she knows I know it. And there's no way I can play it like I'm not hopelessly appreciative of the time she spends with me, or that I don't adore her far more than she ever could, or... or anything. She knows how I feel.

That Celtic tattoo she has on her calf doesn't mean anything; she just made it up. But she thinks it's all that. If I'd known her when she mutilated herself for the sake of fashion, I'd have striven to convince her not to do it. Striven? Strove? Whatever.

She doesn't return my emails in a timely manner.

She thinks that the only good Jam albums are the late ones, when they added the horns and the strings and the backup singers, and when Paul Weller prettied up his voice. And she doesn't even remember their name. She calls them PB&J, or Gelatin, or whatever pops into her head, and I'm sure it's just to annoy me.

She doesn't love me anymore - or not enough to see this through.

When she dyes her hair, or tries a new scent, and wants me to compare it, and I tell her that she's beautiful no matter how she looks, and she doesn't buy it, and tells me, 'if you don't like it, why won't you TELL ME?'

She likes Tom more than me.

She likes silence more than me.

She likes being alone more than me.

She wears Adidas now instead of Converse All-Stars.

She won't return my calls.

She said 'no.'

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