Housewife Building

Today I planned the building for the housewives. The plan is to pick out a thousand housewives, and they’ll leave their husbands to come live in the building that I will build just for them. Here is the idea: the housewife building will begin as a font of sadness. These ladies will miss their husbands. They will cry/sob/weep. Some will get drunk. Some will abuse the prescription medication that they hid in their purses for such an occasion. Some will celebrate even as they feel everything inside of themselves shriveling up and dying. Some will cry even though they know it’s the first day of the rest of their lives.

All will rest their heads on the soft, wonderful pillows I have hand-selected for the very purpose of comforting them in their pent-up distress. Their long-suffering-ness.

Kathryn and I began the planning with some pillow-testing. She sent 25 kinds of pillows up to my penthouse office. I rested my head on every single one. #17 was right. I knew it was right because as soon as I put my head/neck on it, I began to cry! Kathryn was like, “Robert, what’s wrong?” And I sobbed. I sobbed and said, “Call me Bob.” It seemed right at the time. I wept into the pillow, sort of soaking it with tears, and the tears went from hot to cold. Kathryn patted my head and took notes on her iPad. Then I stopped crying and was full of joy again. I was Bob. I was forged anew in the softness of that pillow.

“Thank you. Let’s try the rest,” I said, because I am meticulous, and if I order 25 pillows, I will try them all. But #17 was the one. It was going to fill my housewives with such incredible pain and happiness. I ordered a bunch of #17 pillows for my own apartment, too. These housewives and I, we’re one and the same.