Say you found the perfect girl

And attaining or even knowing this beloved broad served as the keystone to your soul, making up for the lost grabs at all the brass rings from your childhood. She's a spectacular lass, the kind that swoons at the line, "Let me shake my dandruff on you." Although smart, she hates arrogance. Instead of an egghead she's tough, hood, and street. Her appearance suggests she fell off the beauty tree and hit every branch on the way down. God gave her dumps like a truck, thighs like what, and a butt capable of inspiring its own awful pop song.

Left: Your love's physical appearance

Her thoughts are deep and complex. For your seventh month anniversary, she took you to the empty, decaying farmhouse she grew up in. She showed you the living room where she would read by the fire; she showed you the spot under the floorboard where she hid her piggy bank; she showed you the cage they kept her father in after he believed he became a chicken. During the trip out to the country you two were met with a symbolic rainfall that forced you indoors for the night. The rain washed away the plagues of her past. You looked into her eyes, became baptized, born-again, and got engaged. Cleansed of your impurities, you discussed spirituality, the universe, and why laminated electronic products are so hard to open.

From then on you went hand-in-hand in a figurative and literal way. You work on a subconscious level so smoothly that the only time you question your partner is to ask if the other is psychic. You don't complete each others sentences, choosing to speak specifically in body language. The one argument that has ever arisen in your three years of kinship, happened when your doll baby insisted you stimulate her to the point of lactation over the course of several weeks to save on soy milk.

She's really turned on by you, acts like a cat, and rubs her genitals on the armrest of your Ikea loveseat every time you enter your shared studio apartment. She loves to cook, clean, watch sports, drink beer, belch, weight train and often insists on anal. Her career as an airport attendant allows her to pamper you with vacations to lavish locations. She leads a double life as a self-taught hacker exposing government corruption, solving murders with the help of a paraplegic, 12-year-old prodigy, and exploiting security systems for spontaneous fun with you, such as breaking into Burger King after hours to play in the ball pit.

There is one downside. On the eve of your marriage, your sweetheart seems shaken and tries to mask her nerves as you both finish off your double-expanded duck stomachs. You suppress your worry by enjoying the balcony's view of all four major oceans. During dessert she anxiously dips her spoon into some strawberry-covered cheesecake before saying, "I don't think of myself as a woman. I am not 27, either. I am a gay, 21-year-old African American male named Jermaine from the Bronx in the early 1970s, stuck per some cosmic mishap in this repulsive, supermodel body. I don't want to visit Victoria's Secret. I just want to play basketball shirtless with the boys and work on automobiles and do general hoodrat stuff with my friends. I love you and want to be with you, but I can't keep this a secret anymore."

She adds, "Look, you don't have to call me by my real name unless we're making love. I won't tell anyone unless they ask." Stunned, you are faced with the most harrowing decision of your life. Tomorrow is the day you are to be married to the daffodil that provides the golden soul in 'soulmate'; the lotus flower that brings you beers while you shower; the rose that replenishes your orgasm inventory. Your entire extended family has been flown in from Maryland to see you tie the knot. Do you go through with the ceremony?


Above: Jermaine's soul

I would, but only if I really loved her.

1 comment:

  1. so even her secrets make her better. i'm confused on this one.

    ReplyDelete

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