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Dear, we have to talk. Please don't take this the wrong way. Hear me out on this, and don't make any hasty decisions. This is more difficult for me to say than you could know.

You are the most stunning woman I have ever met. During our many long walks on the beach before we got married, I couldn't help noticing, not unlike Helen of Troy who was present whenever there was a mass boat christening, that you launched scores of ships without even trying – including, I believe, at least one which I could have sworn was still under construction, and which rapidly sank beneath the waves. I have it on good faith that, on the average, two workers at that skyscraper construction site in town plummet to their deaths each time you walk past on errands. Why you chose me to be your husband is anyone's guess -- both my friends and myself agree that we, by which we mean the entire sum of guy humanity, are as mere subhuman homunculi, stumbling and grunting at the feet of incredible, shining, female perfection. Such is your beauty, your awe-inspiring, glasses-shattering, contact-lens-scorching, prismatic radiance, that when I turn in each evening with you at my side, I try to doze off, but I just can't help it. You're so beautiful you wake me in my sleep.* And therein I, who am thus blessed almost beyond human capacity, have found myself beset with a dilemma.

So, getting to the point. Well... um... honey... it's like this... could you try and keep your beauty, like, turned down, somehow? Don't get me wrong, it really is very nice on occasion, and yes, it comes in handy at times, but when those times, and the next times, and the times after those are over... I mean, don't misunderstand, honey, I still love you. It's just that I have to go to work in the morning, you see, and for two weeks in a row I've been dead weight until lunchtime. My boss -- he's real envious, let me tell you, he's married to a cow -- he's complained that I've been late for work five times in as many days. My productivity has dropped and he's about to give me the axe.

So, dearest, could you sometimes try to be a little... well, less beautiful? Just a little, I mean, you don't have to get beat by an ugly stick. Just a light tap should be more than enough. I know this plastic surgeon who's not good enough to handle the stars. He's not incompetent enough to be life-threatening, but his work never succeeds to impress. At the very least you could wear these adhesive warts I picked up last Halloween when you come to bed. Please, honey? My job is on the line, and...

Dear? Where are you going?


* There it is, ladies and gentlemen, the title, word for word.

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