Law #1: Every man wants to know that He's a good boy...
I'll elaborate. When you're in your bedroom at night, you're dressing for bed and he, your husband, fiancee, or live in significant other, is watching television and he happens to notice that you're a little colder than usual, he'll ask: "Babe, what's wrong?" You sigh and continue to lotion your body and begin to pour out your heart. "Well..."
I promise you, front that point forward, he won't understand a word you say. Dogs understand very little English. Throughout your moment of truth, regardless of how polite, respectful, calm and patient, it will translate to your canine bestfriend as "Wah, wah, wah, wah, pussy. Wah, wah, wah, wah car. Wah, wah, wah, money. Wah, wah, wah, wah, wallet. Wah, wah, wah, wah, gas money."
After juggling the television program, a sports game or what have you, which is aired in English by the way, and adding up his five keywords he heard when listening to the Master, he comes to the conclusion that your mad about gas money and then replies, "But I always give you gas money?" The following look of shock and horror as you begin to cry and shout at him for no reason, on one of your little crazy rants, is because he missed that fact that you always give him pussy, even when we're in the car, yet he's spending his money elsewhere so you dont have any and you know why and you can't rely on your husband anymore, not even for gas money.
Experiment #1: Once he gives the "I dont know where that shit just came from" face, when you respond by losing your shit, smile the best you can, give him a kiss, be it the forehead, cheek or lips, and say "I love you Baby" and see that the horror doesn't immediately leave his face, you are no longer crazy and he can happily watch the game because Mommy said he was a good boy.
PS: Wah, wah, wah, wah, separate spending account. Wah, wah, wah, wah, prepaid cell phone. Wah, wah, wah, wah, don't skip a beat. Wah, wah, wah, wah, save. Wah, wah, wah, wah, his and his. Wah, wah, wah, wah, "Sorry, I ain't sorry."
The 2001 Sony Entertainment Pictures production, America's Sweethearts was a childhood and family favorite. The premise involved a celebrity acting couple that after an approximate decade or more suffers a terrible break up leaving the husband, Eddie, in psychiatric rehab, mourning the loss of his love, Gwen. Instead of the prescribed three months inside, his money and mourning paid for more than a year's stay at the oasis. To his misfortune, profit and popularity trends disturbed his peace and meditation and he was enticed into leaving, causing him separation anxiety. He later sits in the limousine, with a lap full of high quality herbs, wearing sun glasses, reciting his mantras and growing closer in conversation with his limousine driver, one of the first human interactions he had encountered since his release. He then became perturbed by the spontaneous parking on their way to the late movie premiere and the tapping on his window by an assistant. Begrudgingly, he rolls down the window and is bombarded with what he felt were irrelevant questions with obvious answers that his mental or emotion strain could not entertain. He resorts to the only logical solution of throwing the herbs at the female assistant screaming "I don't care!", repeatedly as he then rolled up his window.
Relating greatly to Eddie's emotional attachment to the detachment of the loony bin, I resound to my life's inadvertent and therefore inevitable controversy with a loud proud, "I don't care!". Life tests my self-esteem, self-awareness, path, intelligence, imagination and physical capabilities, strategically and what seems to be pointlessly. I have reason, so why should my hardships? So I flip the bird, swear, and reject all notions of Universe's dominance over my existence to the point of extremism, even urinating and expectorating in the streets, highly anticipating in-patience. I could care less about being teased or labelled or the stigmas of those labels. I've been called crazy every day since beginning my menstrual cycle at twelve. After all, I am Artist, therefore, I am God.
On this overly critical path where even babies in strollers "are looking at me and judging me, the whole world is judging me", I refuse to contradict anyone's opinion of or desires for me. Think what you want, feel how you want, scheme and plan all you want because you all are "totally nutths". I mean, Hell! "I can't even enjoy my chower", when I get to take one! Where's the loony bin?
If I dont 301 myself before your next half witted practical joke of a hardship, I'll will be forced to pour a skillet of hot scrambled eggs in the next "man"'s lap screaming that "I'm sick of all the buuullshit!". That is, as soon as I manage to find a stove and skillet, or a home with a kitchen for that matter. I declare, with the utmost confusion of the highly intelligent trapped amongst the masses of barking microscopic infusions "You're the Devil" you stupid arrogant asshole! Dare one more time that you dont know whether or not to go through with our agreement or "to just hand me the divorce papers" and I'll go flying through your window on a motorcycle as you sit at the sill. Then, I'm a psychopath and you're in danger. Then, call 911 you shivering midget "bathdard". I wouldn't care about you if you were contemplating suicide from the rooftop of an outdoor event, because you need one last attempt for attention and sympathy. "Puthy boy gonna go splat". Though, I'd be up there too, just to be alone and think. Only, you'd claim it were some non existent occasion where a Black American was a terrorist.
Hold the paddy wagon boys and the fake news actors, this isn't a terrorist attack to report on. I can take myself to the crisis center. I'll take the drugs while I wait on herbs and mantras.
