The process of arguing can feel venting at the moment, but afterward, it leaves you feeling deeply uncomfortable. Whether you win or lose, it just feels miserable. Back in high school, I was terribly tongue-tied and could never win an argument with anyone.
Because my face naturally looked a bit fierce, people always assumed I was the one bullying others. It made me look completely in the wrong, and since I couldn’t find the words to defend myself, people who didn’t know me developed even deeper misunderstandings. Rumors were flying around campus that there was a sophomore girl who used her good grades as leverage to bully others, even forcing people to apologize and drop out of school. All I can say is, don’t believe in rumors, and don’t spread them! I only found out about this later on after getting to know other people. Sigh, people with resting b-face really spend their whole lives walking on thin ice.
Actually, when I first found out about the rumor, I was doing fine and could view it lightheartedly like an outsider eating popcorn. Miss Y, however, couldn’t. For some reason, after she found out, she was more heartbroken and prone to crying than I was. I smiled and teased her, saying one would think she was the one being slandered.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s me or you—it’s wrong for anyone to be slandered! Why is everyone so unwilling to learn the truth before easily jumping to conclusions? You barely even know her!”
Miss Y cried like a boiling kettle, her tears and snot making a total mess all over my clothes.
“Isn’t everything fine now? The rumors have been cleared up, and everyone knows I’m innocent.”
Miss Y stopped crying, though she was still sobbing intermittently. She said, “But there are still people who believe the rumor and don’t know the actual facts.”
“There’s nothing we can do about that.
I’m not a deity; I can’t make everyone clearly understand how everything happened. I can only focus on being myself and ensure the people who love me aren’t disappointed in me.”
Having personally experienced the harm of rumors, ever since I started writing novels, I basically only use my main account to post my work and rarely share my daily life. Even when I do share my everyday life with Miss Y, I only post it on a burner account or on WeChat.
Sometimes when I switch accounts to search my own name and find that the videos are all peaceful, I leave feeling perfectly content.
I truly hope everyone can treat unfortunate situations or comments with peace and kindness. I hope people don’t argue—arguing is such an unpleasant thing that only harms your own body, and the rumors generated in the end are never anything good. So let’s all please not argue!!!
After my very first novel was published, problems came one after another. But none of those issues matter. In Miss Y’s and my hearts, the most important thing will always be all of you, and I truly hope everyone can avoid arguing when encountering issues! Don’t argue! Don’t argue! Don’t argue! If you come across disrespectful comments or videos, you can tag me first, and I can handle it.
If it really is my fault, I will release an apology video. If it’s malicious slander from the other side, I will fight it to the very end with a lawyer’s letter. Both Miss Y and I hope everyone avoids arguing.
You are all good babies and truly wonderful people. We don’t want any of you to bear these malicious attacks on our behalf. Miss Y and I are already mature adults who can handle these things perfectly well. We don’t want the group of people we love to feel hurt or sad because of us.
This got a bit too serious! Let’s go back to sharing some happy snippets of our daily life instead—but remember, absolutely no arguing!
Sleeping until I was completely dazed, I totally forgot that I had to go out in the afternoon.
Miss Y woke me up and told me to wash up and get ready. I went to wash up in a trance. After washing up, I still needed to brush my hair, but being too lazy to do it, I lay right back down on the sofa and fell asleep again. Seeing me lying down again, Miss Y propped me upright, went to grab a brush, and started brushing my hair for me.
She brushed my bangs straight back and tied them into a little topknot. I kept yawning, occasionally whimpering that it hurt when she pulled too hard, and Miss Y would coax me, saying it would be over in just a second.
I still remember back in university, Miss Y’s winter break started earlier than mine.
Even after my exams were over, I still had a few days of classes left, so Miss Y came to my university to attend classes with me.
At night, we would get permission from the teachers to stay outside, and during the day, the two of us would walk to class hand-in-hand. At night, we slept wrapped in each other’s arms.
That period was filled with both the anticipation of the holidays and a deep appreciation for the beautiful moments of the present. Looking back now, I still feel those are irreplaceable memories.
Miss Y takes a very long time to do her makeup. Since I don’t know anything about makeup, I could only sit next to her playing games while waiting.
As it turned out, her own makeup wasn’t going well, and seeing me gaming happily beside her, she gave me a kick and asked why I didn’t think to help her curl her hair, questioning if I just didn’t want to go out with her. I looked at her with a completely innocent face.
Even though I knew she was just being unreasonable, I still obediently got up to help curl her hair. I didn’t know how to do it at all, so with her directing me, I ended up styling a completely hideous hairdo. Furious, Miss Y gave me two more punches. Isn’t this just bullying?
I immediately got upset too. With a cold face, I said, “You asked for my help, and I already told you I didn’t know how. Yet you still hit me and scolded me. I’m never holding you to sleep ever again!”
I turned my back to her. She didn’t come over to coax me either, just staying there doing her makeup and redoing her hair. Even after she finished cleaning herself up, she still didn’t come to comfort me.
I grew even more upset and intentionally made some noises to get her attention. Miss Y didn’t look at me at all, which made me so mad that I went right back to cling to her side anyway, asking why she wasn’t coaxing me.
“Weren’t you angry? I wanted to give you some space to cool down. After all, I really was out of line.”
“No, you weren’t out of line. It’s my fault for not knowing how to curl hair and making you look bad.”
“Just wait until I get some practice. I will absolutely curl your hair into the most beautiful style in the world.”
“Okay, I’ll wait for you. Are you still mad then?”
“Not mad at all. I love you so much, wifey!” I said, clinging to my wife snugly and hugging her tightly, terrified she might push me away.
Miss Y laughed, patted my head, and praised me for being a good baby.
The two of us then went out shopping hand-in-hand. As soon as we got back home that afternoon, I immediately ordered ten wigs online to use as practice for curling hair.
I swear I will give Miss Y the most beautiful hairstyle in the world.
When inspiration struck, I opened three new novels in a single week, typing ten thousand words a day. I can’t remember how long I pushed through that, but once each book reached about seventy thousand words, I hit a wall.
The crucial thing was that all three books were deeply loved by many people, so I couldn’t just stop writing. I could only force myself to maintain the daily output of ten thousand words.
Every day, my brain was spinning through entirely different worldviews. Sometimes, a modern fiction piece would somehow end up with a fantasy flavor, an ensemble piece would turn into a tragic angst story, and an infinite flow (unlimited flow) novel would turn into a heartwarming, slice-of-life daily narrative.
After writing like that for an unknown period, I finally finished one of the novels. Following that, I only needed to write two books a day, and the word count and quality of those two books naturally went up. Sure enough, slow work yields fine products.
I will never push myself like that ever again; I am going to cut myself some slack. Next time I have a massive burst of inspiration, I’ll just use an alternate account to write it out quietly.
Back when I started those three new books, the moment I opened my eyes every day, I would receive a message from my editor saying, “You still owe me ten thousand words.” A wave of exhaustion would hit me instantly.
I often asked myself why on earth I dug three separate holes for myself back then, especially since the genre for each hole was completely different. Plotting every day made me lose all my hair, and I became quite haggard. My entire spirit and energy became completely different from before. The old me was far too arrogant, but now I am thoroughly humbled.
I’ve had a very noticeable slouch ever since I was a child. My family lectured me about it, I went to the hospital for treatment, and I even practiced dancing, but I still habitually slouched when walking.
After meeting Miss Y, whenever I walked by her side, I would involuntarily adjust my posture. Slowly but surely, I corrected my habitual slouching problem. Miss Y is practically a modern-day Hua Tuo.
She improved so many of my habits—such as my slouching walk, my messy and unappealing handwriting, my low EQ, my lack of smiling, my procrastination, my tendency to always want to run away when facing problems, my terrible photography skills, and my awful aesthetic taste.
After being with Miss Y, so many of my behaviors have been gradually improving, aligning closer to hers. Perhaps this is the greatness of love.
In the beginning, my cooking skills were also quite terrible. However, Miss Y’s parents always came home late, and she was too lazy to turn on the stove when home alone, opting to just eat cold leftovers. To ensure Miss Y could have a warm, freshly cooked meal, I started practicing my culinary skills back in high school.
By now, whatever Miss Y feels like eating, I can cook it up for her the very next second. This is a skill born of love, and it’s my way of showing how much I love Miss Y.
Seeing her transform from her initially gaunt self to her current healthy appearance, and watching her eat the food I cook bite by bite, makes me incredibly proud. Miss Y often praises me as the world’s number one chef. Watching her happily eat the food I made, whether I am truly number one doesn’t matter at that moment—I only know that I want her to eat until she is completely full and thoroughly warmed up.
Back in high school, whenever Miss Y ate something delicious, she loved to bob her head around. Now that she’s thirty years old, she still bobs her head around whenever she eats something delicious.
It’s so cute and adorable! Even though she hasn’t allowed me to praise her like that ever since she turned thirty, it really is just so cute and adorable. I believe Miss Y is the number one cutest entity in the world, no arguments accepted.
Nor do I accept anyone falling in love with my wife or confessing their love to her. I’m just showing off how cute my wife is—no confessions allowed! No confessions allowed! No confessions allowed!
What is love? Before meeting Miss Y, I spent a lot of time pondering this. Even though the junior high school age might seem young to others, I really did think about it seriously. I used to believe that love should be a relationship defined only after knowing each other for a very long time, where both sides share an immense amount of love, where I would respect all of her thoughts and she would respect mine, and where we would support each other all the way until we turned one hundred years old.
After getting to know Miss Y, I realized that some of my concepts seemed to head in the exact opposite direction.
For instance, it was love at first sight for me with Miss Y. We certainly do share an immense amount of love for each other, though occasionally I don’t understand some of her ideas, and she sometimes doesn’t grasp my aesthetic taste. The only identical thought the two of us have ever shared is wanting to live for a very long time together.
But if she lives to be one hundred, then I’ll live to be ninety-nine years and five months old. She is seven months older than me, so I only need to live seven months less than one hundred years. Shared in life and bound in death—no matter what, I will never separate from you.
If only I had been born in the exact same year, month, and day as Miss Y; that way, we could fall together right into our one-hundred-year-old burial plot.
The two of us playing a game of animal sounds:
Me: “Do you know how a little pig goes?” Her: “Oink, oink, oink.” Me: “How about a little dog?” Her: “Woof, woof, woof, woof.” Me: “How about a little cat?” Her: “Meow, meow.” Me: “Wrong, wrong.” Her: “What’s wrong about it? That is how they go.” Me: “
A little cat actually goes like this: ‘Ruru baby I love you, I like you the most in this lifetime.'” Her: “Huh? Are you praising me for being cute?” Me: “Heehee, yes I am.”
In front of outsiders, I maintain a very aloof and cold image.
Even when encountering something funny, I only let the corner of my mouth curve up slightly, leaving others unable to tell whether it’s a happy smile or a smirk. But in front of Miss Y, I have a completely goofy personality, letting my teeth out to catch the breeze every single day.
Miss Y would ask me, what about my image?
“What image do I need in front of my wife? If I have no image, would you stop loving me?”
“That’s hard to say. What if I’m in a bad mood one day and have to look at your completely unrefined self? It’s really hard to say.”
“Not allowed! Absolutely not allowed!” I would quickly sit up straight, facing Miss Y with the persona of a cold, aloof goddess.
Seeing my emergency image management, Miss Y would laugh uncontrollably. Only after she laughed her fill would she say that she would love me no matter what I looked like.
Believing her, I would instantly transform from a cold goddess right back into a goofy little girl.
I’m so incredibly sleepy. The moment I think about still owing my editor thirty thousand words, I feel instantly even sleepier.
I’ve had no choice but to gulp down cup after cup of coffee, to the point where my whole complexion looks sallow, looking like someone who has overindulged terribly. The next morning, seeing how I looked, Miss Y even teased me, telling me to treat my body better and not to get worn out at such a young age.
I told her it was from pulling an all-nighter, and Miss Y just gave an “oh,” not explicitly saying she didn’t believe me, but her eyes held a look that said, “Let’s see how you spin this.”
I ran out of options and stopped explaining, rushing to wrap up the final bits of work so I could catch up on sleep. I was dead tired, ahhh! Miss Y went to work, leaving the whole apartment completely quiet. I slept all the way until twelve midnight before finally getting out of bed. My entire biological clock is completely messed up, sigh.