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By Shauna Glenn
I don’t remember you telling me you were raised by a pack of wild dogs. I’ve been to the house where you grew up and I know your parents quite well. They appear to be civilized people and cannot be the reason you make me want to kill you and then myself, or maybe just you. I mean really, if you’re dead, there’s no reason for ME to die too, right?
I also don’t remember you doing some of the things you do now that send me running to the closet where I bury my head in a stack of sweaters in order to muffle my blood curdling screams. It also explains why I keep a bottle of wine and a box of Twinkies hidden in the closet for just such an occasion. There’s no reason for my suffering on an empty stomach or completely sober — now that would be lazy and unproductive. Could it be that you no longer feel the need to impress me? Because if that’s the case, we can revert back to the days before I was a sure thing. And we can start today.
My intentions are not to point out these “quirks” that make me want to slit my wrists, but rather ok, that’s not true. My intention for writing this letter is do exactly that’s point out all your obvious flaws.
On a somewhat regular basis, you bring home speeding tickets and news of what you call a “misplaced” credit card which is really just a prettier word for “lost.” I don’t mind paying the tickets and canceling the credit cards. I don’t mind when you come to me complaining that you can’t find your wallet or your ipod. I take pride in the fact that I can offer my investigative services. But, just so you know, all of these things can be easily found if one looks for longer than 10 seconds or on top of the dresser.
You stand at the window and watch as I lug the trash cans to the street for the next morning’s pick-up. Ever thought of lending a hand? No? Well, just so YOU know, during the walk from the garage to the street I fantasize about my new husband, George Clooney, and how he wouldn’t dream of letting me do such a menial task that was created solely to give the husband something to do. In fact, George Clooney would insist that I relax in the bubble bath he just prepared for me. I’m not saying I would leave you for George Clooney, it’s just that shit. I can’t lie to you. I would totally leave you for George Clooney.
On days I come home from the grocery store you tend to stand in the middle of the kitchen, typing away on your blasted PDA, never stopping to ask, “can I help you with the fourteen bags of groceries you just purchased to sustain my very life?” That never seems to cross your mind. In fact, you almost act annoyed when I say, “do you have to do that right here?” You usually leave the room, defeated and pouting, but never taking your eyes off your TV screen. This is probably why you’ve never seen me flip you the bird.
Probably your most annoying habit is the farting. I don’t understand why you wait until I get in the bed with you to cut loose. I’ll tell you this — your farts are the worst smelling farts in the history of farting. And I’m sick of being exposed to them! It’s not how I want to end my day! The worst part is it doesn’t seem to bother you farting in front of me. You seem to take great pride in expelling noxious fumes in the presence of your beloved.
I could go on, but frankly, I’m exhausted. And writing it all down has only stirred up more hostility toward you and the truth is, I really like you when you’re not annoying. When is that exactly?
I think you should buy me something. A Cartier watch would be nice. Yes, I think you would be less annoying if you were to do that. We could leave right now and drive to the jewelry store. Oh wait. Shit. That won’t work. You lost your credit card the other day and the new one hasn’t arrived yet. And to think, we almost solved the problem. Wait. What is that smell? DID YOU JUST FART?!