Why does he keep doing this to me? How can he not know by now my fear of heights and how much I hate to fall and on top of that, especially what a clumsy schmuck he is? I ask myself daily, of all the glasses in the closet, why do I have to be his favorite and then I realize, it’s because I am the only one with a smokin’ hot picture of Marilyn Monroe on the front that “magically’ undresses every time he takes a sip; I’ve seen more of Marilyn’s ass crack than JFK and Joltin’ Joe combined.
This table is large enough to seat ten people, it consumes almost the entirety of the dining room and each and every time he puts me down, a little of me is hanging over the edge and all of me is paralyzed with fear that yet again, I must take another dive. I wish I had a bungee cord – at least the carpet is a thick shag leftover from his mother’s poor design aesthetic, a common occurrence in the 1970’s when my savior was laid atop what was a pristine hardwood floor. I still have nightmares about the carpet getting removed, the floors getting buffed and me falling down onto a surface more solid than the top of this enormous table that I’ve never seen the center of.
Oh crap, the refrigerator just opened which can only mean refill and yet another adventure. My only moment of peace is the hour I spend at the spa – oh, sorry, dishwasher as you refer to it; a long, hot shower, a bit of a whirlpool and then a soothing sauna. You should see what Marilyn does during the heavy duty cycle. See ya later.