That is not my handsome husband.
That is not my paid cash for a four-door car.
Those are not my well-behaved twins.
This half a dozen assortment of creatures...
are not my beautiful pets.
He wanted
a featureless mannequin,
a corpse bride with little expression.
No sequins.
See, he
wanted somethin' easy.
Like blonde apple-cherry pie
Like microwaved mayo in a micro
with a side of tall skinny cool pink lemonade.
A girl,
too stupid to argue or realize her own way.
He not only expected but required her to be happier than him, dumber than him, more lovely, less threatening, a chronic cheerleader to his ego and packer of school lunches for his offspring.
He has this "logic" because
if she
looks like a sexpot then she must be a pot for sex, and I'm sure sir you'll propose more than rabbit within your rabid stew.
Maybe,
Your Children Will Genuinely Love You.
(maybe).
Maybe,
they won't even really be your children.
When she begins to age, she'll begin to change and you won't understand it.
Where all her listlessness and dissatisfaction comes from. Why she drinks more merlot now.
But,
he'll blame it on hormones.
And maybe she'll continue on making you happy, but then again, maybe she won't.
You might wake up one day, not unlike you did today, to a wedding dress on a single hanger pinned with a note.
He'll keep it, that note.
In his wallet, no less.
He will ponder from time to time on where they went wrong?--where could he have possibly gone wrong?
He picked the safe girl. The dumb girl. The loyal to a fault girl, the non-threatening, non-confrontational girl, the conformist girl, the dull girl, the dumpy girl, the homely girl, the girl nobody wanted to sleep with.
That note she left?
It'll tatter and grow fuzzy, the ink will melt into the paper and he will not ever get the closure he needs no matter how many times he rereads it.
But the house she no-doubt forced him to buy, will ultimately stand empty and hollowed as only a real woman can make a home.
And he did not pick the real woman.
He picked
the mannequin girl.
That is not my paid cash for a four-door car.
Those are not my well-behaved twins.
This half a dozen assortment of creatures...
are not my beautiful pets.
He wanted
a featureless mannequin,
a corpse bride with little expression.
No sequins.
See, he
wanted somethin' easy.
Like blonde apple-cherry pie
Like microwaved mayo in a micro
with a side of tall skinny cool pink lemonade.
A girl,
too stupid to argue or realize her own way.
He not only expected but required her to be happier than him, dumber than him, more lovely, less threatening, a chronic cheerleader to his ego and packer of school lunches for his offspring.
He has this "logic" because
if she
looks like a sexpot then she must be a pot for sex, and I'm sure sir you'll propose more than rabbit within your rabid stew.
Maybe,
Your Children Will Genuinely Love You.
(maybe).
Maybe,
they won't even really be your children.
When she begins to age, she'll begin to change and you won't understand it.
Where all her listlessness and dissatisfaction comes from. Why she drinks more merlot now.
But,
he'll blame it on hormones.
And maybe she'll continue on making you happy, but then again, maybe she won't.
You might wake up one day, not unlike you did today, to a wedding dress on a single hanger pinned with a note.
He'll keep it, that note.
In his wallet, no less.
He will ponder from time to time on where they went wrong?--where could he have possibly gone wrong?
He picked the safe girl. The dumb girl. The loyal to a fault girl, the non-threatening, non-confrontational girl, the conformist girl, the dull girl, the dumpy girl, the homely girl, the girl nobody wanted to sleep with.
That note she left?
It'll tatter and grow fuzzy, the ink will melt into the paper and he will not ever get the closure he needs no matter how many times he rereads it.
But the house she no-doubt forced him to buy, will ultimately stand empty and hollowed as only a real woman can make a home.
And he did not pick the real woman.
He picked
the mannequin girl.
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