Busy week.
Today I pick up my wife from work.
Watch as she gets her nails done.
I'll try my best not to act like a jerk.
We'll try to squeeze in some fun.
We'll have dinner sometime after that.
Then I'll drop her off at Midway.
Because it's five days til she's back.
But, for now I must live in this day.
What will I do for the week?
What sort of trouble will I
Most indubitably seek?
Here' s a list of some things that I'll try.
I'll see how hard a roll can get if I leave it under the oven.
I'll see what anonymous women in pictures and film can be the subject of my lovin'.
I'll see who gives out first, my friends or myself, when I see how long I can go without a shower.
Then I'll lay in my filth for days at a time to test out Febreeze's power.
I'll see if I can wear my underwear like a bra, like the lesbians in that parade.
Then I will watch and declare what I saw with lights out while peeking through my window shade.
I'll sit in my car until the songs over and then change the station and listen some more.
Because there's nobody home right now and nobody wants me to go out and buy ice from the store.
Sure it sounds awesome. A party all week. Why don't I do this when she's here?
"I'm sure she'd enjoy all the experiments." You'd think. But she's made herself clear.
If when she returns five days from now, I'm filthy and wearing dishtowels,
If I've eaten so much colby cheese off the block that I'll need to pipe clean my bowels,
If the trash has piled up and blocked open the door to the fridge so that there is no border,
If she sees that only pure entropy could describe our living rooms level of order
If she smells something so strong she turns deaf, dumb and blind, I'll bet that she'd be upset
But this is the lesson I've taught to myself. And one I shall never forget.
Don't bother cleaning. Don't organize. Don't dust and do not vacuum.
Just clear out a path on the floor from the door of the apartment into the bedroom.
Because as bad as I am, and hard to control and impossible to understand,
I'm not the two girls age 10 and age 12 that for five days she must reprimand.
Emotional garbage or the kind I've perfected. Which type of junk would you choose?
When you're married to me, it's easy to see, whichever choice you make, you lose.
Watch as she gets her nails done.
I'll try my best not to act like a jerk.
We'll try to squeeze in some fun.
We'll have dinner sometime after that.
Then I'll drop her off at Midway.
Because it's five days til she's back.
But, for now I must live in this day.
What will I do for the week?
What sort of trouble will I
Most indubitably seek?
Here' s a list of some things that I'll try.
I'll see how hard a roll can get if I leave it under the oven.
I'll see what anonymous women in pictures and film can be the subject of my lovin'.
I'll see who gives out first, my friends or myself, when I see how long I can go without a shower.
Then I'll lay in my filth for days at a time to test out Febreeze's power.
I'll see if I can wear my underwear like a bra, like the lesbians in that parade.
Then I will watch and declare what I saw with lights out while peeking through my window shade.
I'll sit in my car until the songs over and then change the station and listen some more.
Because there's nobody home right now and nobody wants me to go out and buy ice from the store.
Sure it sounds awesome. A party all week. Why don't I do this when she's here?
"I'm sure she'd enjoy all the experiments." You'd think. But she's made herself clear.
If when she returns five days from now, I'm filthy and wearing dishtowels,
If I've eaten so much colby cheese off the block that I'll need to pipe clean my bowels,
If the trash has piled up and blocked open the door to the fridge so that there is no border,
If she sees that only pure entropy could describe our living rooms level of order
If she smells something so strong she turns deaf, dumb and blind, I'll bet that she'd be upset
But this is the lesson I've taught to myself. And one I shall never forget.
Don't bother cleaning. Don't organize. Don't dust and do not vacuum.
Just clear out a path on the floor from the door of the apartment into the bedroom.
Because as bad as I am, and hard to control and impossible to understand,
I'm not the two girls age 10 and age 12 that for five days she must reprimand.
Emotional garbage or the kind I've perfected. Which type of junk would you choose?
When you're married to me, it's easy to see, whichever choice you make, you lose.
posted by Churchill at 1:54 PM
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