Only I Could Love Him

You wake up to the sweet, sweet sounds of Imogen Heap, as you do every morning, and roll out of bed. You proceed to grace the toilet with not only its beloved and often misogynistically forgotten seat, but a personal tangy gift from you to the toilet that has a dash of the asparagus you ate with dinner last night. You look at the mirror; you see nothing but a large off-white splatter. The splatter is so overbearing that you completely fail to see the note taped on the right side of the mirror. You furrow your brow, you raise an eyebrow, and you immediately locate your two puppies and make sure that they aren’t having episodes of exorcist-like shitting, vomiting, or urinating, when the disgusting creature most often referred to as a “feline” meows at you and looks at her food dish. You scoff. That little bitch of a cat must have caused the off-white firework wannabe now gracing your mirror. She meows again. You roll your eyes and think about exactly how heart broken your significant other would be if they came home and their beloved cat accidentally was poisoned by the bleach you accidentally left out in a bowl with her food and treats in it, decide that they’re a complete pussy and would fall apart, and fill the useless creatures food dish just so she can continue her existence of doing nothing more than sleeping, eating, shitting, and making you want to vomit every time you see her.

You return to the scene of the explosion, Windex in hand, when you finally see the piece of notepaper taped to the right side of the mirror just as you’re about to unleash the bottles first frothy sneeze. You gently slide the piece of paper between your middle and index finger and rip with all the style, finesse, and professionalism of a Brazilian waxer, and you read:

“HEY LOVE!

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE DON'T WIPE OFF THE MIRROR. YOU KNOW THAT GIANT ZIT I HAD IN MY ARMPIT? WELL, I FINALLY POPPED IT AND IT IS GLORIOUS! I NEED A PICTURE SO I CAN SHOW THE GUYS. PROMISE I'LL CLEAN IT UP WHEN I GET HOME. LOVE YOU!"