Imagination
The lovely Mrs. Troll called me last night from her ‘vacation’ in Florida. She wanted me to know that there was no point in calling her because she was going out for a night of partying with her newfound friends at the convention.
So of course (Being a man and all that.) my mind began a trip of it’s own, creating mental images of her and her new friends in some swanky upscale bar, swilling stiff drinks and flirting outrageously with much younger and much-more-attractive than-I–could-ever-be men, one of which takes a liking to her before they go to his luxury high rise apartment for a night of flaming passion mixed with interludes of drunken debauchery and tasty finger foods. (I just had to throw in the food.)
My insecurities then tell me that she will take a real liking to this new found sexual freedom, later calling me to tell me that she sorry but she is not returning home and is starting a new life in Florida as a promiscuous administrative assistant, sleeping her way to the top. She then tells me that I should send the twins to their father, get on with my life, and forget her because she is never coming back to New Mexico. Ever.
At this point I imagine that she tells me that I am inadequate as a lover, my breath smells, I drool when I sleep, and I need to pull out that sharp stick that someone jammed in my ass that seems to make me angry all the time.
So here I am, in South Texas, alone, mourning my freshly shattered marriage, and feeling sorry for myself.
Right, and monkeys are flying outta my butt.
If I actually come to believe any of this kind of bullshit I have obviously turned into my own bitch.
If I ever become that kind of person that could even contemplate ending a relationship because of my own imagination, then please kill me, cut me into small pieces, put me in old mayonnaise jars, and bury me behind the hospital.
That way I might provide a mystery for bored policemen and hospital administrators when my flesh seeps from it’s container and creates a stench even people that clean up human waste every day would gag over.
Causing trouble even after I die, that’s something worth living for.
So of course (Being a man and all that.) my mind began a trip of it’s own, creating mental images of her and her new friends in some swanky upscale bar, swilling stiff drinks and flirting outrageously with much younger and much-more-attractive than-I–could-ever-be men, one of which takes a liking to her before they go to his luxury high rise apartment for a night of flaming passion mixed with interludes of drunken debauchery and tasty finger foods. (I just had to throw in the food.)
My insecurities then tell me that she will take a real liking to this new found sexual freedom, later calling me to tell me that she sorry but she is not returning home and is starting a new life in Florida as a promiscuous administrative assistant, sleeping her way to the top. She then tells me that I should send the twins to their father, get on with my life, and forget her because she is never coming back to New Mexico. Ever.
At this point I imagine that she tells me that I am inadequate as a lover, my breath smells, I drool when I sleep, and I need to pull out that sharp stick that someone jammed in my ass that seems to make me angry all the time.
So here I am, in South Texas, alone, mourning my freshly shattered marriage, and feeling sorry for myself.
Right, and monkeys are flying outta my butt.
If I actually come to believe any of this kind of bullshit I have obviously turned into my own bitch.
If I ever become that kind of person that could even contemplate ending a relationship because of my own imagination, then please kill me, cut me into small pieces, put me in old mayonnaise jars, and bury me behind the hospital.
That way I might provide a mystery for bored policemen and hospital administrators when my flesh seeps from it’s container and creates a stench even people that clean up human waste every day would gag over.
Causing trouble even after I die, that’s something worth living for.
posted by MizfiTroll at 6:16 AM
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