Dear significant other,
When I was about to move in with you almost a year ago, my sister warned me that things would change. I thought, she must be wrong, I have basically been staying over with him over four nights a week for the past five months, how could anything change? Oh, how wrong I was.
Let’s start with sleeping, or lack thereof. If it isn’t your dead, limp body that is putting your full weight on me, or your snoring that always seems to be right in my ear, it is your full-erect cock that pokes at me as you twitch at night. I don’t know what you dream about at night, but it must be good because your penis never stops hitting me, even if we just had sex. Before, I remember complaining that I couldn’t fall asleep without you, and now, after night-in and night-out of this routine, I wish that once in a while we had a second bed so I could finely get some rest.
Speaking of sex, frankly, we have turned into an old married couple. Once, we could stay up until 2 a.m. having loud, rambunctious sex. Now if we haven’t gone to bed by 10 p.m., then there isn’t going to be any sex tonight. Before, candles were added to get the mood, and now, we worry about setting the house on fire, therefore extinguishing our mutual horniness.
You know what also smothers my mood? Bread clips. Bread clips are made to be put on the bread so it doesn’t get moldy. Just like the closet door is supposed to be shut when you are not looking for clothes, and the light is meant to be turned off when you leave the room. All these simple things can be done so easily, but it often seems as though my complaining makes them harder to do. Do you have some kind of medical condition that I don’t know about that makes the bread clip invisible? My father might have the same condition, since, even after 35 years of my mother nagging him, I never have seen him put a clip on bread; perhaps you should form a support group.
While once I thought your jokes were cute and adorable, I realize now that they are the same jokes that a 60-year-old would tell. It does not help that you only have about four jokes and most of those include Yu-Gi-Oh references. Jokes aren’t funny when you have to explain them. I admit I was charmed, on our first date, when you told me, “What does the baby computer say to his father?” but now when I hear “Data,” I realize that one can only acknowledge that joke so many times.
Yes, living together has changed a lot about our relationship, but in spite of it all, I still love living with you. You’re there for me when I need you, through every stress in my life, you clean up around the house when I don’t even ask, and even randomly bring home flowers on occasion. So I guess I’m sticking with you forever, or until I finally kill you.
To my significant other,
Not too long ago now, you finally agreed to move in with me. It’s true, I was eager and wanted to make this shift even before we talked about it. I wanted more than anything the opportunity to sleep by your side every night, as we had been practically doing already. Looking back, it’s funny how delusional our younger selves were.
After officially moving in together, not only did I quickly learn the nitty-gritty details of living with a significant other, but also things about you that I could not have previously imagined. Firstly, you bite. Not in some vicious or weird kinky way, but in a way that you like to bite things that are usually me. Some people would find this strange, but I like to see it as adorably hurtful, and sometimes more hurtful than adorable. Truthfully though, I know it’s weird because you yourself are weird. You collect taxidermy, you love to point out racism, you like teeth but not if you think about it too much, and even though you are a grown woman, your favourite birthday activity is laser tag. So, you’re weird, but that’s okay because I’m pretty weird myself. And even though we have been living together for less than a year, we are liable to kill each other any day now.
In order to prevent this inevitable double murder, I think it necessary for us to lay the cards on the table, so to speak. First off, just because I am neat, crafty, and can cook, does not mean I’m Martha Stewart. Secondly, your obsession with the bread clip has to stop; twisting the bag is as effective, if not more effective than the clip itself. Despite what you think, that little piece of plastic is not the answer to life, longevity, and immortality itself. Lastly, though I don’t mind carrying you places, it does strike me as strange that your legs become effectively lame at the first sign of fatigue, yet, once we have reached our destination at the expense of my back, you still have energy enough to tickle the shit out of me. As a side note, I don’t think I will ever understand your fascination with my nipples, but I suppose that is another issue entirely.
Despite all these things, I desperately love you and would not have you change for the world. I hope to live this way with you for a long, long time to come—providing I don’t kill you first.