MY TRUE LOVE

It’s kind of how she says, “What’s mine is not yours.” That’s hard to ignore, with my lack of sleep and how badly she snores, along with those crumbs left on the floor, under her chair, and that new purple pantsuit with her pink and blue hair.

Not to mention, the toothpaste tube that she always squeezes wrong, and how she constantly mumbles words to her favorite ditty song.

It’s even the way she now walks with that slovenly slouch, and red nail polish left on our new couch.

She thinks I’m quite annoying, with no reasons why, and now dislikes all men, and I’m her primary bad guy.

I knew it was time for some kind of intervention, when she laughed and asked, “When is the loser convention?”

Her combative contrived political correctness is on automatic overdrive. If I don’t get more sleep, she may soon be unalived.

I can still take all her flak; at least, she’s no homicidal maniac. Still, why aren’t all the kitchen knives put back. While keeping one eye open, in case of attack, I’m starting to feel like an insomniac.