Don't talk to me. I'm pissy.
You make one simple request of your husband. ONE. And his answer to this is no. You say please and he says there is no discussing it. You make appeals to his kindness, his compassion, his sense of loyalty and marital duty, but it's still a big fat no.
Great poo on a stick, he's muleheaded.
He does not care in the least, not even a little bit, that this gigantic pimple behind my ear hurts, he will NOT squeeze it for me.
I can't see it dammit, even when I rig several mirrors. Someone has to squeeze it. My earlobe is throbbing!
Doesn't this fall under in sickness and in health? Love, cherish, honor and pop the zits I can't reach? I do, I do, man and wife, kissy kissy. I didn't even throw an obey in there.
Because if he'd vowed to obey we wouldn't have this problem, now would we?
Fine. I'm going to take my Kindle into the bath with me, hope the pimple spontaneously bursts in the hot water, while I get my soak on with Mr. Darcy.
Mr. Darcy would pop Elizabeth Bennet's pimples. Humph.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
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