Tolerance.

Tolerance. I think that's the word for tonight.

Sometimes, I think a relationship is more about tolerance than murmured declarations and whispered sweet nothings.

Everyone has that one thing that just absolutely pisses them off so completely and utterly that they get beyond the ability to think.

And if you don't have that thing then you just haven't found it yet. Don't worry, I'm sure it'll assert itself before long.

Tonight Pookie pushed my thing's button.

Run stupid boy, run.

I could blame the hormones. Right now, I'm a bleeding, raging bitch the likes of which Stalin would run from. I could blame that.

I could blame myself. I'm crazy on the best of days, downright depressing and stubborn on the worst.

Or, I could do what my gut is telling me, and blame Pookie.

But, honestly, what's the point? What's the point in blindly pointing fingers? What's the point in getting angry?

There is no point. And that's where that tolerance thing comes along.

I love Pookie enough to tolerate him when he does something so insanely stupid that even I, obtuse as I am at times, can tell he's in the wrong. And I love him enough to realize that fighting in the heat of the moment is only going to result in hurt feelings.

And so I wait. And I think.

And I realize that I love him enough to tolerate it when he pisses me off, and I love him enough to feel free to fight with him and be secure in knowing that we can work it out, provided that he's willing to work it out with me too.

And that's what a relationship is, isn't it? It's work. It's fucking hard work sometimes.

There's no other option for me. Because when you stop trying, and stop working, I kind of feel like that moment is when you fall out of love.