I Believe... [Too Much {Clap, Clap} Time On Your Hands...]
…that if the hill you die on is whether or not there is a female 007, that a Popeye’s chicken sandwich is less homophobic, or how many black people were in Game of Thrones, I’d suggest you have far too much time on your hands.
The stomach tightens and sinks.
The heart and lungs follow.
It’s a confounding reaction to a receipt of affection.
It’s familiar, and, therefore, oddly comforting.
But familiarity can be a curse.
A cursed reminder of what once went wrong when you were just trying to do things right this time.
This time it’ll be different, you say.
Why? You’re different, but what are you doing differently?