Wow, can you believe what is going on in the news lately? That Desperate Housewife got hit in the head with a pole and something happened in the Gaza Strip. I'm not interested. What is important is what is going on in my life. If anyone is the desperate housewife, it's me.
First I just want to say that if I have to hear Somewhere Goddamn Out There or John Fucking Waite's Missing You on the radio one more time, I'm going to have to hit someone over the head with a pole, and it won't be pretty. The radio is tormenting me on purpose. I know this to be true.
And let me also state that Target seemed like it might provide a distraction from my loneliness last night, so I wandered around the store for a while but there are definitely not enough Simpson's boxer shorts or Willy Wonka candies in the world to make me forget Thor.
He commented yesterday by the way. It was his first time reading my blog, and now the world knows my secret. I'm in love with a man who writes in all capital letters. Remember when I used to be such a snob about punctuation, grammar, spelling and the like? No more. It would be hypocritical of me to criticize at this point. Sorry, but muscular hairy chest trumps grammar. Thor wins.
Oh, and now you know another secret about me. I allow Thor to refer to me as his wife. I have always detested the idea of being called a "husband" to my boyfriend - and being called "wife" was completely out of the question. But you should hear the way he says it. You should see him shake his head at me when I do something goofy or stupid (which is often) as he sighs, "my wife". He says it with such affection. He can call me whatever he wants. He can call me his bitch if he says it with love. I don't care anymore.
Actually, Thor has lots of nicknames for me. Two are kinda dirty, and extremely personal, and I don't think I should share them here. One of his nicknames for me is "Lucy", as in Lucille Ball. I think I got that nickname when I shook up a Pepsi bottle before mixing a drink because I wanted to make sure the soda wasn't flat. It wasn't. Not at all.
He also calls me "Runaway Bride" because of a certain incident that occurred a few weeks ago when I kind of threw a fit over something stupid and left his house in the middle of the night when he was sleeping. I stopped being mad when he called me Runaway Bride the next day. It was too funny and too accurate. I couldn't stay angry.
Last night I only got to talk to him on the phone for 17 minutes and 38 seconds. It is bad enough that I can't touch him, but if I only get to hear his sexy voice for 17 minutes and 38 seconds a day, I am going to go insane for sure. Tonight maybe I'll go check out the goods at Wal-Mart. If you happen to be at that store and see a crazed 6'6" blonde man pushing a cart asking if anyone has seen his husband, be sure to say hello.