My dream relationship ends with throwing lamps at each other in a $32 Texas motel, at 4:30 a.m. I’ve never had one of those. Never drank whisky in the bathtub while my girlfriend practices stripper moves and wraps aluminum foil around her ankle monitor before going to work. Have not had to take out multiple restraining orders on each other, including ones for fictitious names, like “Poonflang Dammerung” which is the name I use for ordering pizza. No girlfriend has waited all night behind the dumpster of the Gas ‘n’ Go, so she could run me down with a rusty Camaro while screaming “whooooooore!”. Our children have not had to go to school in plastic garbage bags belted with little extension cords because everything was lost in the meth lab explosion. Googling my name doesn’t bring up news articles about me running naked down the middle of an Arkansas highway shrieking HEP ME JEEBUS while my ex-wife takes wobbly shots at me with a crossbow. My current girlfriend does not keep a prison shank concealed in her wig. This sucks. Lately, I’ve been getting dumped with alacrity. But it always ends with me getting lured to Baker’s Square and told “you’re a really sweet boyfriend, it’s not you, it’s me…”. Just once I want my car torched.
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