Hey. Can I talk to you? Sit down. Fine. Stand.
Look, we’ve had our differences lately – a lot of differences – and I need to tell you…I’ve been seeing other languages. Don’t yell, please. You’re always so harsh. This is hard enough. I don’t know how it happened. How do these things ever happen? I was bored. I was frustrated. I was online and I saw the…Berlitz website. Don’t yell! I set up a meeting.
With…French. Don’t laugh!
You’d be surprised what French can offer. Fun, for one thing. A little esprit. Keep laughing. It’s pronounced ‘oui,’ by the way. And enchanté. Nice try. Will you listen?
Then…I took un poco Espanol. Again with the laughing. Yes, I know about their economy, you smug prick. After a few months of that, I figured I’d gone that far, so I said screw it. Why not go the full monty? Shoot the moon?
I took Italian. What do you mean ‘why’? I needed languages that were more ‘fun’, you know? Remember fun? Spass? But, these other languages – Sprachen, as you so delicately call them – sure, they’re a kick for a while and I’ll be honest, I partied hard with these languages – they’re not called romance languages for nothing – but it gets old after a while, you know? I mean, where’s the Realitaet? Where’s the Schwerkraft? The Sturm und Drang? I mean, how much joie de vivre can one man handle when deep down he thinks he really deserves ‘Heiterkeit?’
That’s where you come in, Mein Liebe. My therapist says I’m a masochist for continuing to try to figure you out. He says I should stick with Italian and dolce vita. I wish I could. I wish I could.
But I always end up back here. Again. With you. Even though I’m never right with you. I’m always wrong. You tell me a rule then you give me an exception to it. The list of exceptions is usually longer than the rules. It’s like you want me to never quite know who you are, never quite know the real you. I probably am a masochist because sometimes I just love that impetuous side of you when you pull the carpet out from under me, leaving me dizzy.
Like when I’ll say der Katze because it’s a male cat but you say no it’s die Katze because…well, just because…because you want it that way…and you’re the boss…and deep down…I like it that way. Contrary to all convention and all other cultures, you say the sun is feminine and the moon is masculine and I say – ‘okay, baby. You’re the boss.’
I wait and I wait for you as you pile up verbs at the very end of sentences. Just when I think I can go on like this waiting and waiting for just what the hell you’re talking about, you go and say something like – Schatzi, Ich Liebe Dich – and I’m back in the fold. I’m back. Again. Is it for good? I don’t know. But it’s for now. Don’t laugh at me. Fick Dich, Du Arschloch. Mon amore. Sorry – Mein Liebe.