Sorry 'Bout That

My Dearest Husband,

I wanted to let you know that after exhaustive research and careful contemplation, I've decided to opt out of the whole Mushroom Stamp thing. See, when you presented the idea, professing that it was an act of love performed between two people who loved each other, I almost fell for, I mean, considered it. Fortunately I didn't agree to it at the time it was mentioned. The fact that you wouldn't divulge what exactly giving me a Mushroom Stamp would entail, gave me pause to heartily accept your offer. I'd like to thank my good friend, Mr. Google, for educating me on this very thing.

Sorry to decline, but I'm remiss to have a penis-shaped bruise on my forehead, what with working in sales and everything. Particularly dealing with aspiring brides and grooms and all. I'm loathe to shed marriage in any other light than wonderful and sporting a penis-shaped bruise anywhere on my person prolly isn't going to convince anyone that marriage is anything other than, well, a dick move. And hell, I like my job. I might even enjoy it. Sorry to decline your gift. But not as sorry as you, I'm sure, knowing how much you'd like to bestow it upon me. Heh. You're lucky you're funny. You have no idea.

Also, just so you know, I got a little overzealous with the laundry yesterday. Allow me to explain. Your work jacket? Was very, very, very, VERY FUCKING MUDDY. I decided to do the wifely thing and wash it. Because I'm good like that. And wash it I did. It's nearly sparkling now. Squeaky clean. And so is, well, your cell phone. Which was in the pocket. Of your work jacket. Which, did I mention, is squeaky clean? Sparkly even? Right. Moving along.

I'd venture to guess that you aren't as sorry as me with regards to the squeaky clean and also not working so much cell phone. Given your aversion to answering your cell phone whenever I have the urge to call it. Which is often. I think I'm sorrier about your phone than you will be. Which means that I'm sorry. Very, very sorry. It will suck not to be able to ring you up while you're working and ask what exactly IS free enterprise, anyway, honey? Your feelings on the not working cell phone matter will likely differ.

One last thing before I go. Last night? When you planted your ass firmly on my leg and farted on it while I was sleeping? That woke me up. As a result? You will be sorry. I have a whole mess of ice cubes stored away in the freezer with your name on them. I think freezing to death would be a horrible way to go. But that's what you get. My thighs jiggle enough these days without your exceedingly powerful flatulence reverberating against it.

Sleep tight! Asshole. Very, very tight.

Love,
Your Ever-Adoring Wife