I'm entirely too analytical. I know this but it's like smoking or heroin.
My man tells me, "You're getting weird about that. Let's drop it," and I'm admittedly, not capable of reining in that chariot in my head that runs away with the story, picking up other crazy characters along the way. Only to crash into the wall when my man comes home and hugs me and tells me he loves me.
"Jeez Louise, would ya stop worryin!?!" he calls to me while I'm up to my elbows in chicken marinade and grilling tools. Suddenly all my best arguments fly out the window.
I'm a chick... it's what I do.
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