And Now THAT Song Is In My Head. Great.

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Less than 24 hours after returning from a quick romantic weekend, my dearest darling, Ryan, was felled by an intestinal flu, so he’s been concerned that he might have given it to me.

Ryan: How are you feeling? Still okay?

Me: Are you texting to check on the state of my bowels?

Ryan: Yeah, I guess I am.

Me: In the immortal words of Ashford and Simpson…still Solid As a Rock.

Ryan: I’m thinking more fiber for you.

Probably Not The First Time Someone Sat On Han’s Face

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Yes, yes, I know…two posts in a row about fucking novelty bedding. It also should be noted that my sweet, brilliant, rational boyfriend goes completely ape-shit nerd when discussing some sort of controversy regarding whether Han Solo or Greedo shot first in the original movies. It has come up roughly three million times.

Me: Liam is spending his first night in his new Star Wars sheets.

Ryan: Do they make those for a queen-sized bed?  I’m asking for a friend.

Me: Yes, but would you really be comfortable getting off in front of Han?

Ryan: It’ll be the first time he didn’t shoot first.

Me: Fine, but if you start making ‘pew pew’ noises during climax, I’m going to be super put off.

Ryan: ..

Me: You’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?

Ryan: Maaaaaaybe?

When Real Estate Porn Turns Dark

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(After I sent him a real estate listing for a huge historic estate…)

Ryan: Great property, and I like the tree-lined drive.

Me: It would be perfect for a dog herd.

Ryan: Dogs? We could just set the children loose among the trees!

Me: I don’t even care if the damn thing is haunted.

Ryan: That might even make it better.  Just as long as the walls don’t bleed.

Me: Agreed, I draw the line at supernatural bodily fluids.

Ryan: Wise boundary, you have no idea where those ghosts have been.

Me: Well, yeah, something killed them.

I’m Just A Little Slackery This Year.

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Okay, this is truly pathetic…I mean to post this when it happened in March, so bear with me, and pretend that it’s St. Patrick’s Day, and excuse me for being, apparently, so drunk that I’m just getting around to hitting the ‘publish’ button.

Me: (Sending picture)12733386_10208132405763596_7973043262048863464_n

Ryan: Lick of the Irish?  That sounds like the makings of an excellent evening.

Me: This is why we’re together.

(Five minutes later…)

Ryan: Order whatever you want on it, the kids will eat it.

Ryan: Damn it, disregard, this is what happens when I text you and my mom at the same time.  She and I were trying to figure out what kind of pizza to order for dinner.

Me: Just be happy you texted me about pizza, and didn’t text her about your cunnilingus skills.

Ryan: Yeah, nothing kills the mood more than talking to your mom about giving head.  That’s the anti-viagra.

Me: That will never be on a Cialis ad.

Ryan: If it were, it would be two side-by-side bathtubs with one of them falling over a cliff.

And This Is Why Women Resort To Cat-Ownership

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Linney: Dude.  Are you ready for me to be online dating?  This gem arrived this morning.

Linney Date

Me: W. T. Actual. Fuck.

Linney: Hefty.  It’s got…heft.

Me: Better than ‘girthy’?

Linney: Yes. Or ‘pencil thin’.

Me: ‘Slim-dicked wrestler seeks soul mate.’

Politics…Bringing People Together Since…Never

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(Don’t even ask what started this conversation…our texts have a narrative thread that falls somewhere between mescaline overdose and fever-dream.)

Ryan: How would you like a Trump-Cruz ticket.?

Me: I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of me dying.

Ryan: That’s something you could put on Pay-Per-View.

(A second later…)

Ryan: To be clear…Trump-Cruz, not your dying.

Me: Thanks for clarifying, sweetie.  Wait, are you saying my death isn’t good enough for Pay-Per-View?

Ryan: Yeah…I don’t think I can win here, so I’m just going to tell you you’re pretty and hope for the best.