Being A Nurse Blows In Kansas Day!

I'm a twenty nine year old divorced nursing professional and I'm bored with the kind of nursing that goes on here in Wichita. Nothing but taking care of patients who live in or are visiting Wichita. Can you tell me some states in the USA where I can get in on some of that way bitchin' nursing I'm always seeing on television shows?

Being A Nurse Blows In Kansas

I have some good news and some bad news for you BANBIK. The good news is that you're not alone. Almost every nurse in the USA wakes up every morning thinking to herself, "I'm so disappointed with the occupation I've chosen. I wonder if all the other nurses in the USA feel the same way as me. That is, I wonder if all the other nurses in the USA wanna spit in faces and spraypaint graffiti onto sleeping bums."

The bad news is, there's one state in the USA where Nursing is awesome. Pennsylvania.

Happy Being A Nurse Blows In Kansas Day!

Just Like In The Movie "She's Having A Baby" Day!

Today, you're pregnant. It's just like in the movie "She's Having A Baby" except you already took the US FDA approved equivalent of RU 486, which amounts to not much more than a shitload of birth control pills all at once. There'll be some abdominal pain and a lot of spotting, but you've pretty much taken care of everything. You'll be fine in a week, though your doctor said you should call in sick tomorrow and keep to bed for the rest of the weekend. Again, there isn't a lot of risk to this. But there can be complications. Just don't push yourself.

And don't tell your guy. He knows you'll get pissed off at him if he acts like he's glad you aborted, so he'll go through the "What right do you have to make that decision for the both of us" tantrum in order to keep getting that ass when you feel better next week.

Happy Just Like In The Movie "She's Having A Baby" Day!

You're Sick Of Murder Day!

Today, you won't be able to control yourself. You'll be leaning over the torn up remains of a sixteen year old homeless boy who was found underneath some trash. There'll be some vomit on his belly and a chisel lodged in his left eyesocket. In his wallet, you guessed it, a photo of a mother and a father, each with a hand on the shoulder of a twelve year old boy. It's just a guess that the bloody mess before you was the boy in that photo.

A cop in uniform will say, "Think it's the same guy, detective?" You'll reel around to shout something, but you won't know what or why. Just doing his job, trying to solve a murder. Just like you for fourteen years now. But you need to shout something. Anything.

"Don't you...?"

The cop will wait for a scolding. He's used to being batted around at a crime scene.

"Detective?"

The alley will start to spin. You'll walk a few quick paces away from the cop, trying to get your bearings. Then you'll stop and shout up at the windows of the apartment buldings all around you.

"I am so SICK of murder!!!"

You'll feel like you shouted loud enough to crack the sky, and you'll wonder if you did because a silence will follow. A silence broken by a stifled snicker. You'll turn to find the uniformed cop with his shoulders shivering, his hand over his grinning mouth.

You'll be ready to shut him up when you spy the other beat cop and the landlady he's interviewing, both of them giggling together. A loud guffaw will echo from the mouth of a little boy hanging out his window up above. The crowd of bystanders will erupt in a rolling, building cackle.

Soon, everyone on the crime scene will be laughing at you. You can run or start shooting.

Happy You're Sick Of Murder Day!

The Kid That Dropped The Baton Day!

Today, you have a lunch date with Craig Latham. Yes, the Craig Latham. The kid that dropped the baton.

As far as you knew, there had been no word from Craig in the ten or so years since that baton clattered to the gravel of the track and he lost the relay race for his entire team. He stuck around school for another week or so after the race, but he was beaten so severely and ridiculed with such venom that he had no choice but to drop out and get out of town.

When someone from the school paper wanted to do a story on Craig a few years later, his parents were discovered to have moved four owns over. They left town as well because Craig's enemies did not draw a distinction between Craig and those who shared his blood. Rarely was the night that went by without a brick crashing through their window. Craig's parents knew it would only get worse, so they went away.

"But Craig didn't come with us," Mr. Latham said. "For our safety, he said he had to go off alone. Told us to forget we had a son."

Mrs. Latham added, "Goddamn did he ever cunt up a lotta shit for everybody when he dropped that cocksucking baton. Retard can't even grab onto a stick."

The Lathams showed the reporter a postcard with a postage stamp from Dubuque. "But he ain't there," said Mr. Latham. "See, it says so on the card."

Scribbled on the card were the words, "I'm not in Dubuque. I came down here solely to mail a postcard from here. Fucking baton. C."

You couldn't believe your eyes when you spotted him at the train station on Saturday. He was standing in the middle of the floor, underneath the clock, staring at you. Waiting for you it seemed.

"I don't have much time before I have to go underground again," he said. "Meet me at the lower level Au Bon Pain on Tuesday at 1:30."

You sucked in some air to ask a question, and he was gone.

Why you? Why now? Today, your questions will go unanswered. But what Craig has to say will prove your questions irrelevant.

He'll sit with his back to the wall, and he won't look you in the eye throughout your entire meeting. He'll be too busy looking for the face of his assassin.

He'll say, "Just a charity race for MS, I thought. What harm could it do. I just never thought everyone would take it so seriously."

Can you ever forgive the warrior heart inside of man? you'll ask.

"Forgiveness would imply a response to something resembling contrition. There is nothing to forgive." He'll lean in close. He'll stink. "I've seen the darkness inside of man, and I have chosen to study and embrace that darkness. To feed upon it and one day spread that darkness like a blanket over all the world. When I signed up for that race, it was an event of blblical proportions. If I can stay alive long enough, this world will end."

You'll sleep with him.

Happy The Kid That Dropped The Baton Day!

Dissuading The Architect Day!

The architect says, but if I build over the Ancient Indian Burial Ground, the sun will hit the skylight just so and the tile I've had imported from Peru will attain a permanent glisten. You adjust your shelf of bosom and stand very close to the architect, looking up into his eyes and playing with the buttons of his shirt and you say, but if you don't build over the ancient Indian burial ground, I'll remove my clothing and pull you inside of me. The architect says, hmm, you drive a hard bargain. But nope! I have to fulfill my vision or else my soul is fucked. You say, but it feels really awesome inside me. I've been told it feels, quote, Great, end-quote. The architect says, but why is it so important to you that I not build over the Ancient Indian Burial Ground? And, how great? You say, if you build over the Ancient Indian Burial Ground, those uppity Injuns'll pop up out of the ground shouting, "Guess how dead we are today, ya'll. Fuckin' shit up, it's on the agenda!" And, as great as a bath in a really big, clean tub. The architect says, Fine, pull me inside of you. BUT BE CLASSY ABOUT IT!!!

Happy Dissuading The Architect Day!

Howling Fat Man Day!

Today on public transport, you will spy a 365 pound man in denim shorts sitting with his hands resting on the handle of an umbrella. He will be howling softly.

You'll follow his eyes to the crowd of young people huddled around one of the floor poles. None of them will be especially attractive and neither will any of them be carrying a little dog in a sherpa bag. But the fat man will be howling into their general direction.

When you look around to the other passengers to see if any of them find this as strange as you do, you will discover that everyone but the howling fat man is staring directly at you. You are marked and they know you walk among them.

Happy Howling Fat Man Day!

It's the Girls Are Pretty Stakeout Weekend!

On Friday, October 24th at 7 AM, Prettygirl rented a Ford Taurus and parked it on a residential street on the Upper East Side of New York City. The Taurus is currently parked with a clear view of a third floor apartment window. The man who owns this apartment is Prettygirl's Uncle Morris. Uncle Morris' seventieth birthday is coming up soon. Prettygirl has no idea what to get him for a gift, but she wants it to be something special. Therefore, it is necessary that his day to day life be monitored, charted, and that conclusions be drawn as to just the kind of man this Uncle Morris truly is, and whether he would prefer a roll-neck J. Crew sweater, or a Tivo.

Thus far, Prettygirl has learned that Uncle Morris will not put on pants unless it is absolutely necessary. Additionally, his groin is itchy.

Not a lot to go on, which is why your personal regression assignments might be given to you on a less than regular basis, as Prettygirl is primarily alone on this Stakeout. Except when a boy named David visits the car so that she can run to a public bathroom or a Kinkos, then run back to the car to make out with David until he has to go back to class (he's studying to be an astronaut).

Yesterday's and today's assignments are below. Keep your head down and pass the donuts.

Saturday, October 25, 2003

King Libido Day!

Today, King Libido will leer out from his throne and decree, "Everybody come up here and rub upon me." And all shall obey.

Happy King Libido Day!

Friday, October 24, 2003

She's Way Fucked Up Day!

You fell in love with her on her first day of orientation at the museum. You showed everyone in your training group where the bathrooms were, and she said "Man, I'm gonna be spending a lot of time in there today. I've been sick to my stomach for three years now."

She's the prettiest museum guard you ever did see. And after months of shuffling your days off, you finally got it so that you're both in the Degas room on Fridays, and you both get off at six.

You'll ask if she'd like to grab a beer and she'll say, "I'll drive." You'll spend hours at the bar. The conversation will be just as perfect as you imagined it would be. The kind of ease with a person that you haven't felt since the last time you fell in love. You'll both have had quite a lot to drink, but alcohol doesn't make this kind of thing happen. You'll blame your hearts.

Finally, you'll suggest that the two of you get out of there. She'll say, "I'll drive." But she'll be way fucked up, and when she hits an icy patch she'll send the car into a ditch. You'll both live, but she'll have a horrible scrape on her face from the airbag. You'll wait inside the car for the police to arrive, holding each other for warmth, smothering each other with gentle kisses upon the face and neck. It's going to be wonderful.

Happy She's Way Fucked Up Day!

Daddy's Amnesia Day!

Your brothers bought it without a twitch of an eyebrow. "Dad says he has amnesia, fuck it. Dad has amnesia," they said. "You're a faggot, dudefucker," they added. Then they took off their shoes and made you smell them.

But something about this story never quite sat right with you. Are you especially distrusting of your father? Or were you simply the only one who paid attention to everything that occurred just before the amnesia set in?

You stood in the hallway and watched your mother clumping up his dress shirts and lobbing them out the window onto the lawn. "Let your little slut iron these from now on," she shouted into the night. And though you weren't sure what she was talking about, you felt in your bones that things were never going to be the same. You just never imagined that it would work out that your father would come home and not recognize your face.

He must have been out there wondering how and why he came to your house. He just stood there on the lawn, staring at the clothes and trinkets he didn't recognize splayed across the grass. He looked like he was trying very hard to come to a conclusion. Then your mother came to the door and didn't shout. She just watched him. Your father came into the house.

"Who are you? Do you recognize me?" he asked your mother. "I feel a great deal of love for you, but I don't remember ever having met you in my life. Yet I feel I am supposed to live here and love the people in this house. Perhaps I have amnesia and cannot remember any of the major events in my life, especially the more recent ones. However, the warmth I feel in my heart makes me certain that this house is the place where I am to live and where I one day will die a happy man who lived a full life. May I stay? I appear to have amnesia."

The anger crept from your mother's brow. She looked to be trying to solve long division. You were hiding behind a chair, breathless with the suspense as your mother decided whether to hold her husband in her arms or start screaming again like she had been doing for the past two days that he was gone.

Then she took a breath and took him by the arm, leading him to the couch in the living room. "Boys," she shouted. "Come down here."

You and your brothers lined up on the sectional opposite where your mother was sitting beside your father.

"Boys, something terrible has happened. Your father has amnesia and he can't remember anything about his life."

She waited for your father to say something. He said to you and your brothers, "Who are you? Do you recognize me? I appear to have amnesia."

Your mother then took his chin in her hand and said into his eyes, "These are your children. And I am your wife. Never, never betray us."

Then she let go of his face. "This is your home," she said. "This is where you'll stay."

After that, you all wore nametags for a few months, and occasionally you'd have to remind him where the toilet is. But everything pretty much seemed like it was after not too long. At first, if you mentioned the amnesia to your mom, she'd just say "Think of it like a do-over." Later she'd say, "Your father is home. That's what matters." And she'd look at you a little too long before giving you a hug. After a while, she just stopped answering you.

Happy Daddy's Amnesia Day!

Mistletoe Day!

Today, because you don't work, you'll dig out your Christmas decorations. Not to put them up yet. You start early but before Halloween is just silly. No, you'll make the excuse that you just want to see if there'll be anything you need to shop for when the time comes. In reality though, Christmas makes you happy. So you figured that it was worth a shot to look at some Christmas decorations if it might help you to not be so terribly sad.

Underneath the trays of ornaments and wrapped up in a tangled string of lights will be that fake twig of mistletoe that you always hang in the foyer. You'll hold that fake twig of mistletoe in your fingertips and you'll look back on all the boys from whom it won you a kiss. You'll go down the list of names, and you'll realize that you'd never kissed any of those boys. They're the names of boys you'd wished would kiss you under your mistletoe, but who had never been inside your house. You'll rack your brain to think of boys who had kissed you under the mistletoe, but there weren't any. You'll off yourself.

Happy Mistletoe Day!

Close To You Day!

You think David is dead because he stopped writing. He is not. Your mailman is simply in love with you and he's been hoarding David's letters to you and opening and reading them to find out more about you, find out what sort of man can win your heart. Your mailman is trying to learn who to be so that someone like you might one day wait for letters from someone like him.

First and foremost, your mailman thinks he should become the sort of man who works for an environmental concern in South America. Second, your mailman thinks he should be the kind of fellow that meets the woman he loves for a week's vacation in a province of Canada and then recollects the time he spent there with her in letters written months later. Third, your mailman believes his handwriting could do with some degrees of improvement.

But above all, your mailman knows that he should be the sort of man who has a relationship with a woman that goes well beyond timing his presence at the door of your building to coincide with your departure from the building just so that he might for a few seconds share the small vestibule with you. But he'll be there again today at 8:25 AM, and you'll ask him if there is anything for you and he'll hand you a cellular phone bill. You will be disappointed. He will be standing only eleven inches away from you.

Happy Close To You Day!

The Wart Day!

Today, put Compound W on the wart that's lived on your left index finger knuckle for the past 46 years.

Wait an hour, then start to dig at the base of the wart with a metal nail file. After enough digging, you'll break the seal and you'll be able to get nearer to the belly of the growth. After this point, it's going to start to hurt.

The base of the wart...hang on. You named the wart after the close friend who personifies everything that's wrong with your life. In that, were you a better person you would never call such a terrible fool your friend. Right? Okay, the base of the wart has been dried up and numbed by the Compound W, but the root of the wart was unfortunately untouched by the application because you started digging at it far too early.

It's not your fault. Girls Are Pretty told you to.

So now, you have a wart that's pretty much just resting like a beach ball in a crater right there on your knuckle. With all the digging, what was once a bit unsightly is now downright disgusting. The mound is holding on by just a few sinews of extremely sensitive tissue. Cut it the fuck loose.

You need to shove the rounded blade of the nail file in there. Don't try to slice or dig. Just shove it into the mass like you're pushing through a crowd. The blood should really be flowing now. And you'll be crying and screaming the name of that friend you hate. But just a few more shoves and, though messy, it's out. The wart's gone. 46 years. It's gone. It'll start to grow back immediately.

Happy The Wart Day!

Booth By The Window Day!

It's Sunday again so you're drinking alone. Normally, you'd take the second booth from the back. The one by the newspaper stack so you can leaf through the Sunday entertainment sections. But tonight you wanted to look at faces. Tomorrow you'll remember it more as you waiting for a face, like you made plans to meet someone there. But tonight, as far as you're concerned, you're just sitting in the booth by the window and letting your eyes register the folks passing by.

Down the block, crossing the street towards you, will be Jonathan. It will take you a second, then you'll remember that he had a small part in an awful one-night play you got roped into eight months prior. You shared twenty seven words with him that night and you remember liking him and hoping he might come out to the bar after the show. He did not and you decided he probably did not drink and therefore had nothing in common with you. You forgot about him.

He'll get close enough to hear you knock on the window, but you won't. He'll be close enough for you to see that his is not the face of a man who wants to come in and catch up over a Sunday evening drink. He'll be close enough for you to see that he's broken. You won't put on your coat before you run out after him.

Your gray sweater is a thick one, but it'll still be too cold out for you to leave your jacket in the bar. It'll all be okay in a minute though, you'll think.

You'll have to run half the block before you're within arm's length of him. His pace will be quick. When you can reach out and grab him, you'll hesitate. Then you'll reach out and grab his left hand. He'll wheel around, not like he's going to take a swing, but like he might be getting arrested.

Close up, you'll see his limp cheeks climb back onto their bones with not a little effort. You'll watch him take in your face and go from puzzlement to recognition, then back to puzzlement. He'll say, "Oh, hey. How've you..."

You'll cut him off when your left hand joins your right in holding his left hand tight. You'll squeeze his hand tight in both your hands, then you'll look up and let him know without saying so that he can keep on looking terrible in front of you.

His face will fall and he'll take a deep breath then two steps into your embrace. Eight months ago, you shared twenty seven words. Tonight he'll take two steps into your embrace and you'll stop thinking about how cold it is outside. He'll kiss the side of your head, your cheek, then your lips. Then you'll walk back to the bar with your arms around each other and you'll take a seat in that booth by the window. He'll have a whiskey, thank goodness.

Happy Booth By The Window Day!

Your Friend Mark Wants To Fuck The Living Shit Out Of You Day!

Got a friend named Mark? Then Mark wants to fuck the living shit out of you. It doesn't matter if Mark is married and impotent and you are dead and buried. It doesn't matter if you and Mark are both dudes who are the kind of heterosexual that just end up worshipping every girl you date, without ever once exhibiting the kind of angry womanizing so indicative of borderline closet-cases. It doesn't even matter if Mark is fucking the living shit out of you whilst you read this. Mark still wants to fuck the living shit out of you. Deal with it you big fat baby.

Happy Your Friend Mark Wants To Fuck The Shit Out Of You Day!

Life At 8239 Sunny Cove Lane Day!

The house is full of gray. Gray air, gray faces, gray shirts. Your little sister is dead.

Your mom's hands are the color of the end of the day. They're cold and her arms are all bone. It's better she not hold you for a few months.

Your friends, Derek and Lee, they're going to be knocking on the door any minute now. There's an ambulance in the driveway, but Derek and Lee are only six years old and an ambulance will not tip them off to make like the rest of the neighbors and stand rubbernecking from the edge of their lawns. Derek and Lee will just go ahead and knock on the door to find out why there's an ambulance in the driveway and whether you're still going to come outside to play. You're six years old too, as it happens.

Your Dad and your older sister are the ones in the living room (the couch used to be brown but it's gray) sitting on the couch with the policeman. Your dad is explaining to the policeman in the gray uniform why the wrong pills made your little sister stopped breathing. Your big sister isn't crying.

There's a knock on the door. That'll be Derek and Lee. They're going to ask your Mom whether your little sister is really dead and your Mom's not going to answer. She's just going to shut the door, making a point not to slam it.

Happy Life At 8239 Sunny Cove Lane Day!

Hot Cowboy Day!

You hate the stink of hot cowboy. But you've been DJ'ing this line dancing gig for six years now and it's all that you know how to do.

Also, you're the best.

First time you breathed in some hot cowboy, you brought him home to stay for two years. Two wonderful years that ended the night a bounty hunter burst into your bedroom and ripped his naked swearing body from your arms and dragged him off to honor the word he gave to his bail bondsman.

You swore that night that your sheets would never be tainted with the stench of hot cowboy again. But four years is a long time to go it alone. And you've made some slips along the way, one slip that lasted eight months, another slip that lasted three years and four months. A slip that's driving his truck to Los Angeles as you sit there behind your turntables, spinning like only you know. With every flick of your wrist the booted folks up and down those lines can feel your declarations of never, never again. Hot cowboy just ain't never gonna be cool.

Would you be this good if if didn't make you ache? Is being a linedance DJ all you have, or is being a linedance DJ all you ever wanna be? Linedance DJ gonna stink with fresh hot cowboy on her shirt collar tonight.

Happy Hot Cowboy Day!

Seventeen Minutes At Kennedy Airport Day!

He's going to get on a plane to Madrid and you can't go with him past the security gates. Past the security gates, he's going to leave you behind. The love ends here, at Kennedy Airport. So make some small talk with the people in line around you.

"Hi. He's going to send me a letter in three months telling me that he's a different person who's met someone new and he doesn't think we should see each other anymore."

"Hi. He got me pregnant twice. In seventeen minutes, I'll be kissing him for the last time. I'm okay with it I guess. I'm only 20."

"Hi. Did you drop these gloves? One and a half years we've been in love I think. I mean, it was definitely love, but shouldn't I be sobbing or something? In August, we stayed in bed for twelve days straight. That's something, isn't it? Is that something?"

When he is standing at the security gate, looking at his watch, make faster small talk with the people in line around you so you don't make him miss his plane.

"Hi. See him over there? Do you think we look good together? I never thought so. I think I look better with his friend Marcus, honestly. Though I was never attracted to Marcus. But I look better standing next to Marcus. He can fuck like it's gonna end hunger. No not Marcus. Him."

"Hi. Do you speak English? Fuck."

"Hi. Wanna see something cool? I'm going to go kiss my boyfriend goodbye forever. We're not breaking up. He's just going to Madrid. He'll come back, but not to me. Watch this."

Now go to him and wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him with all you've got in you. Stick one of your fingernails underneath another of your fingernails to bring tears to your eyes.

Happy Seventeen Minutes At Kennedy Airport Day!

Build Clouds Day!

Build four clouds. One from newspapers, one from a soap bubble and the smoke of a cigarette, one from stone, and one from shirts. Then hold the clouds over your bed when it's time for your lover to wake up. When his eyes flutter open and he looks up and sees you waving the clouds over him, say "Wake up sleepyface. What's a matter, too cloudy?" When he laughs, switch clouds. Drop the two in your hands and pick up the two that are sitting on the bed and wave them over the bed in a circular motion. Your lover will ask you to c'mere, in a let's screw kinda way. Don't. Instead, move the clouds around in an even faster circular motion and shout, "Uh oh! Storm front!" Then start spitting on the blanket.

Happy Build Clouds Day!

Smiling Over Coffee In Your Jackets And Everything Through The Glass Is Faggy Day!

While the idea is in your head, the sweetness makes your teeth hurt. It goes thusly:

You call. She answers. You ask. She accepts.

You suggest. She agrees. You wait. She arrives.

You speak. She stiffens with the shock at having heard put into words a point of view she'd always embraced as undeniably true but always imagined to be far too silly to ever think anyone else might feel the same way.

She speaks. You warm, as if an extra pint of blood had suddenly been pumped into your veins, after hearing a sentence that you've been waiting to hear for two years. A sentence that lets you know, without a doubt, you will sleep for eight hours tonight.

You smile over your coffee in your jacket and everything walking past the streetside window of the coffee shop is faggy. She smiles over her coffee in her jacket and everything walking past the streetside window of the coffee shop is faggy.

As you wait for the hours to pass, you wish you could just live in the idea in your head. You know it never works out so sweetly.

And it won't this time either, but by around 7:44 PM tonight, it's gonna be pretty darned tasty. Check it out:

You call. She answers. You ask. She accepts.

You suggest. She agrees. You wait. She arrives.

You speak. She responds.

She speaks. You respond.

(about a half hour passes without epiphany, or anything you'll even remember, and then at 7:44 PM)

You smile over your coffee in your jacket and everything walking past the streetside window of the coffee shop is faggy. She smiles over her coffee in her jacket and everything walking past the streetside window of the coffee shop is faggy.

What sucks about you is there's still gonna be a little fraction of your heart that's pissed off that all the stiffening and the extra blood pumping never happened and you just went ahead and jumped to the smiling and everything going faggy. What sucks about you is you still won't accept that people only smile when they're too tired to try and look pissed off.

Happy Smiling Over Coffee In Your Jackets And Everything Through The Glass Is Faggy Day!

This Game Is Not About How Many Things You Can Buy With Your Light Green Money Day!

This game was devised thousands of years ago when God created the Earth and he said, "This game is about people meeting people and falling in love with people and making promises to people and creating people who are gonna be people who crave people and search for people or wait for people who meet people and fall in love with people and make promises to people and create people who are gonna yeah yeah this'll be a great game. Now should it be with pieces travelling around the board according to a roll of the dice or should it be more like Checkers? I'll think on it in the bath later."

So don't act like you're cool just because you have a lot of money.

Happy This Game Is Not About How Many Things You Can Buy With Your Light Green Money Day!

Do You Mind My Asking How Your Wife Is Doing? Day!

I'm forty three now, married, a father. Still strange to be saying it. Strange for it to be true for all these years already (five). I guess I'm sort of finishing up things, yes. For so much of my youth, I was clawing into myself, trying to dig out from under the hair and the layers and layers of skin that one thing that will make me golden. There was a greatness inside me, there still is, and I drove myself mad trying to root it out. But it was a squiggly little fucker, slippery and sly, it knew just when to feint my lunge. One day, in my late thirties, I concluded that my hunt for that greatness was its only sustenance, the only thing that kept it alive. So I stopped looking for it and let it die.

Anyway, you know about me and your wife. A year and half we had around 13 years ago. Well, I loved her. And I kept loving her. But unless I became the man I wanted to be, I knew I could never have her. I could not present myself as I was, as I am, a man less than a fraction of who he'd hoped to be, I could not give this man to her. It would have been an insult. But while I was searching for that better man inside of me, I held out hope that one day I would feel that I deserved to take her by the hand.

That day never came and it never will, I've decided. And when I made that decision, with it came acceptance of the fact that your wife will be the only woman I will ever truly love until the day that I die. Yes, I am married, and I am married to a beautiful woman who has given me beautiful children. I repeat, your wife will be the only woman I will ever truly love until the day that I die. Which is why I hope you don't mind my asking you presently, how is she?

Happy Do You Mind My Asking How Your Wife Is Doing? Day!