be my valentine?

I am a romantic. I wish you'd understand that. Sometimes I think you really should make the effort to figure out what makes me tick and sweep me off of my feet. God, I'm so practical and feet-on-the-ground all of the goddamned time and I just want you to realize that I need you to take of me sometimes. I want you to make me nervous because you've been so sweet and I want to get butterflies and . . .
Fuck.
I would really love for you to take me to dinner and then out to the flight line to let me watch the touch-and-gos. Maybe we'll talk about serious stuff, or maybe we'll laugh a little bit and have some fun. Maybe we'll mess around a little bit. Maybe then we'll come home, sans children and you'll carry me to bed and lay me down and strip me naked and kiss me til I can't breathe and then you'll listen to what I'm not fucking saying and you'll do all of it.

It's mostly because I do so much around this house and I don't really feel appreciated. I've told you this and I feel like still, you don't get it. Just like the tiff about dinner tonight. I don't feel like cooking dinner and I don't want to go out, but God forbid you step up. God forbid you say, "Hey, you've been doing a lot lately," or, "let me make dinner for you." Ugh. Why don't you see it?
Just . . . think about me, for once. All about me. Is that so much?