Here's an odd little story someone might find amusing and could possibly prescribe due to some
fancy-schmancy bewk larnin' regarding
psychology (preferably on the
psychosis of
women).
I dig my girlfriend. Love her to death. But lately, she's been caught up at
work due to one of her
coworkers quitting, leaving her and one other to do the work of about four people. Now, back when she used to have time, she'd crash out at my place. It was grand waking up next to her. I'd escape early, go to a
flower vendor, buy her a
rose and place it in her grip while she slept. It was all sweet and
emo and all that. Well, I figured that the one gnarly,
graham cracker-sized G.I. pillow I had wasn't cutting it for both of us, although I had no problem with the thing. So, I went out and bought a new pillow. Top of the line, chock full of
stuffing, even a new blue
pillowcase. I had it for about two weeks before she finally decides to come on over to
my place again. We sat around and
chewed the fat. It had been a long time since we'd
snuggled, so we commenced to do so. I pointed out the pillow and she gasped with delight and attacked it like a four year old girl would attack a
teddy bear. She
refused to have anything to do with me until she had properly squeezed it to ensure
ripeness. Now, to go back to something I haven't mentioned yet: she's usually not as verbally
emo as me. Possibly because
English is a second language for her, and not one she's studied since
junior high. Now, her
emails are littered with little hearts and cute
nicknames. All over a pillow. Women.
I still dig'em
Update: A few weeks after the
Apocalypse that was Valentine's Day (12 Mar):
You'd think I would've learned, huh? You think I would've maybe saw a connection between
squishy things and my girlfriend (hence why I'm still in the picture). Nope. Not my dumb ass. I went out and bought a little plush
monkey for her. For
Judgement Day. Complete with heart-studded boxer shorts. And she named it. She named it after me. And it got more lovin' than I did until i tried to throw out the fifth story window. I think the point was pushed a little hard when the little
primate bastard was found strung up by his neck from a high precipice. It wasn't me though. I swear. But at least the
circumstantial evidence doesn't point to me. And I still dig my girl. And I haven't seen the
ape for a few weeks now. Apparently it gets the pleasure of sleeping with her every night. The little git. I'll find it yet.