I love...spending time with you

Ooops I did it again. Did I really just open my new post with the undeniably unforgettable chorus line from Britneys'  2000 number one track? Yes. Yes I did.
I have become involved with another indecisive game player. Should I tell you that it is someone I have been slightly heart broken by before? Well, I just did. My best advice ever has to be, don't keep running back to the one thing you should be running away from. I am yet to follow this advice. I also got told, relationships are like going to the fridge, if the milk is bad, you throw it out. For some reason, I seem to indulge in putting sour milk back in the fridge, hoping it will miraculously become fresh and pure again, and nice to drink, and dateable...you get my metaphor.

'I really love what we have,' you said to me the other night. Our bodies entwined like an awkward but comforting game of twister. People seem afraid to use those three words nowadays. Instead it's; 'I love...spending time with you,' 'I love....what we have...' 'I love...the idea of falling in love with you but heck, who does that these days?' And what is this 'thing that we have?' Seems to me a secret sleepover every night, cuddling up all couple like, talking about our days, the occasional kiss and cuddle to keep each other warm, but not too warm mind, we don't want things to get steamy now do we.

I love it because you keep me warm on these cold winter nights, two pillows are better than one, two hearts beating simultaneously are better than one. 

You love it because when your lovely man arms are wrapped around my body, you can look over my shoulder at your pontsy iPhone and see if that becca girl has replied to your message on plentyoffish.com.  I know this, because...I'm not really sleeping. I have practiced the art of one eye open sleeping. An art I wish I never skilled, because I hate to see you text your ex and plan your weekend antics with 'the lads.'

It is easy for you, I'm in the room next door and I'm not the type of girl (as the blog definitely suggests,) to kick up a fuss when she is being treated like a massive mug. A massive, porcelain, china, pretty pattered one at that. So when we go out and I turn around in the club to see you snogging Mrs up-to her chin legs and down to her bum hair beauty, I can't be all like - 'That's Ma Man BITCH!' Cause you ain't 'ma man' and you probably never will be.

Instead, I politely ask for the keys to the house, pretending I've lost mine, just to get a close up of this 'pull,' and as I think, yeah well done actually, she is schmokin...I turn to you and wait for some sort of response. Maybe a  'Chelsea, oh what am I like, you're the one that I want, I'm coming with you,' or 'Oh this girl has totally just blackmailed me into kissing her, she has a gun Chelsea run, save youself, I will find you, and we will marry,' or a simple 'Ah Chels, you alright?  Keys? Yeah sure, here ya go.' Of course, it was the latter. 

So I fight the tears in the taxi and mumble something to the driver about hating Bournemouth and not belonging here and listen to some soppy love song to make myself feel that bit more worse (why do we do it?)  3 hours later my already thought-interrupted sleep is interrupted by you ringing to let you in. Ah of course, I took your keys. ( The wine that night has made me forget whether I took these keys as a punishment, surely I wasn't going to steal your keys and make you sleep outside?) I let you in and crawl back into bed, you do the same thing and ask 'have I upset you tonight?'  

'No.' I reply.