An Open Letter to My Future Husband
We need to talk.
No. I know we talked last week, but obviously that didn’t help because you continue to leave your suit jacket on the ground when you get home from work. It’s honestly not that big of a deal – it’s just that I’ve asked you to fix it so many times, and you aren’t even trying. I feel like you don’t respect me or my opinions about our marriage. I’ve got other things that we need to discuss, too, and no, do NOT tell me that I’m nagging again. We’re just having an adult conversation.
The first thing is that you never take the kids to school. I have to go to work just like you do, yet somehow I’m always taking both Jane AND Tyler to middle and high school. I mean, COME ON?! They go to different schools!! Does it not make sense in your small mind that we would each take one of the kids?? So we’ve covered the mornings now.
Ready for the night?? Okay, here goes. It pisses me off beyond fucking belief when I get back from work and you’re watching tv and farting all over the place while the kids run wild, and then you have the BALLS to ask me when dinner is going to be ready?? How about you make fucking dinner. Preheat the oven to 325 and shove a Stouffer’s lasagna in it for Christ’s sake.
And how about a fucking “Hi, honey. How was your day?” Is that too much to ask? I’M TIRED, TOO. This marriage is not what I signed up for.
You know what?? There’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you for a while, so I’m just going to do it!! You’re a fucking pig. Please lower the toilet seat after you’ve pissed your beer-smelling, yellow-ass pee all over its rim. Please fold the blankets that you’ve been using for the past three weeks while you sleep on the couch. Please take a shower you pathetic piece of shit. My parents are staying with us soon, and I don’t want them to see the wreck of a man you’ve become. And PLEASE stop walking around the house in only your underwear; you’re making Jane believe that a 5’9 250 pound man is an appropriate specimen to settle with. And you’re making me feel uncomfortable and sad, because, let’s be honest, I look better than you and I carried humans in my fucking uterus for 9 months at a time, TWICE.
You clean the dishes, bitch.
Your Future Wife