My husband and I have made a pact. He is not allowed to die until we are old and bored with each other. There are two reasons behind this pact: 1) First, dying sucks. It’s a messy business that I have no time for. C) Second, I don’t ever want to date again. The second reason alone is enough to make me burn any DNR proxy he might fancy himself. Let me tell you why.
First, I have no social filter anymore. That little swinging door between your brain and your mouth that filters out the garbage broke a long time ago. Random thoughts and words flow freely from my mouth like a rusty spigot. And I don’t care. Because if the truth hurts, and you can’t handle it, then maybe, just maybe it’s time for you to grow a pair and man up. I believe life is too short for misguided truths and polite white lies. Say what you mean and mean what you say. Dirty jokes, random racist/socialist remarks, and the occasional limerick have all been known to spew forth like an oil leak in my brain. Because I am old enough and I have dealt with enough crap in my life to warrant a little idon’tgiveafuck-edness.
Second, grooming. Need I say more? Don’t get me wrong, I am a hygienically conscious person. I don’t leave the house in sweats with two day old greasy hair. I brush my teeth a few times a day, and shower on a regular basis. I am talking about the waxing-shaving-plucking-curling and straightening of it all. If I had to go back to making sure to shave my legs and my lady space every single day on the off chance that I might have sex or that some random man might decide this was a Lady Bic commercial and run his hand up my thigh….well, let’s just say I would rather shoot myself in the face with a flare gun. Twice. I have nightmares of having to run to the grocery store in full makeup, wearing 6” stilettos in the hopes that I will meet Mr. Man while feeling up a cantaloupe. I just don’t have time for that anymore. Give me boring married sex on the couch at 2 in the afternoon while the kids are outside playing so can go to sleep whether or not I shaved anyday of the week.
Plus, there is all the meeting of the family and friends and putting on your happy, smiley, look how perfect I am, face and that is just plain exhausting. And retarded. Because eventually they are going to figure out I am an ADD, rambling, happy drunk who spends too much money on shoes and occasionally farts in public. That’s just me.
So, it is written that my husband is not allowed to die until I say so. Because we are married and that is a law I am allowed to create if he ever wants to see me naked or have me touch his manhood ever again. That’s not to say justified homicide or divorce are out of the question, but both of those things would happen on my own terms and that is a story for another day.
First, I have no social filter anymore. That little swinging door between your brain and your mouth that filters out the garbage broke a long time ago. Random thoughts and words flow freely from my mouth like a rusty spigot. And I don’t care. Because if the truth hurts, and you can’t handle it, then maybe, just maybe it’s time for you to grow a pair and man up. I believe life is too short for misguided truths and polite white lies. Say what you mean and mean what you say. Dirty jokes, random racist/socialist remarks, and the occasional limerick have all been known to spew forth like an oil leak in my brain. Because I am old enough and I have dealt with enough crap in my life to warrant a little idon’tgiveafuck-edness.
Second, grooming. Need I say more? Don’t get me wrong, I am a hygienically conscious person. I don’t leave the house in sweats with two day old greasy hair. I brush my teeth a few times a day, and shower on a regular basis. I am talking about the waxing-shaving-plucking-curling and straightening of it all. If I had to go back to making sure to shave my legs and my lady space every single day on the off chance that I might have sex or that some random man might decide this was a Lady Bic commercial and run his hand up my thigh….well, let’s just say I would rather shoot myself in the face with a flare gun. Twice. I have nightmares of having to run to the grocery store in full makeup, wearing 6” stilettos in the hopes that I will meet Mr. Man while feeling up a cantaloupe. I just don’t have time for that anymore. Give me boring married sex on the couch at 2 in the afternoon while the kids are outside playing so can go to sleep whether or not I shaved anyday of the week.
Plus, there is all the meeting of the family and friends and putting on your happy, smiley, look how perfect I am, face and that is just plain exhausting. And retarded. Because eventually they are going to figure out I am an ADD, rambling, happy drunk who spends too much money on shoes and occasionally farts in public. That’s just me.
So, it is written that my husband is not allowed to die until I say so. Because we are married and that is a law I am allowed to create if he ever wants to see me naked or have me touch his manhood ever again. That’s not to say justified homicide or divorce are out of the question, but both of those things would happen on my own terms and that is a story for another day.
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