Bedtime Story.

Tell me a bedtime story about a magical world where fairytale endings actually exist. And you and I will have evil, miniscule children we raise to kill communists and eunichs. But you will have them, of course, because I will not have the parasites inside of me. And I can take your name and add “-monster” to the end of it, and call you it when you have your random mood swings during your frequent pregnancies and throw various unatimate objects at me as I duck behind the kitchen counter, walls, or anything I can hold in front of me to protect my small frame from being impaled. Then, you and I, my love, will rule the world with our spawns of the devil we call children. And we will sit back on folded, crappy lawn chairs and watch the cities burn down in flames from our porch in conneticut as we hold hands and sip on arsenic (because that’s what we live off of). Then you’ll say you love me. I’ll smile and say I hate you. Because that’s just how it works....The FBI will kill all of our children, in which I am saddened to say, but we quickly move on into our various plots of more world desctruction. We have many accomplishments along the way: I find the person who killed Tupac; You cure aids; I finally own my own twinkie factory; You ensure world peace (with the exceptions of our own destruction); And I am able to stuff 48 donuts in my mouth at once. Etc.

Then, on one dark and dreary day, we get bored and decide to get married. We’re tired of the creatures people name “kids”, so we decide to only adopt a puppy and I allow you to keep your g.i. joes so I can one day feed them to oliver ( that will be the puppy’s name ) the days go by and you are revealed to my real-life natures, and grow constantly annoyed...but you keep me. Because, let’s face it, you’d be bored without me in sight. And I apologize for replacing your toothpaste with shampoo....and making you drink that powder cheese sauce when you were drunk that one time...and ruining all of your power ranger blankets with a red expo marker....I only do it because I love you, I swear.

Then we’ll grow old together, I’ll forget you’re name and start calling you my Bob Dylan...The only name I’ll remember and you’ll tell me my name is Rosanna and I’m over-weight as some sick joke...But I don’t blame you, I’d do it to you too....because we love each other like that. I’ll believe you and you’ll actually play me love songs on your old guitar making crappy impressions of Dylan himself. But I’ll believe it all....Then you’ll lay back down on your hospital bed and i’ll lay with you and we’ll both die in mid-conversation about what cereal we will eat the next day. Smiling in eachother’s arms.

Eventually, our bodies in this life will turn to ashes and flow with the wind all around the world, to the few places we haven’t explored together. Our names will be forgotten, and no one will know our stories. Our only extistance will be seen lying in the ashes sprinkled between the various flower beds of the garden of varsailles and iceland and between the rims of various classic books and on the frames of art by manet...scattered all around the world, dwelling in the strangest of places.

We will be reincarnated many times, and each time we will find a way to love and annoy eachother. Inseperable, through life and death and any in-betweens. It will take us three lives, but eventually we’ll do everything possible to the human life and we’ll just sit back and relax for the rest of eternity, watching everyone else panic to find love in their lives, as if it is some cheap comic film. And we laugh at everyone’s stupidity because you and I are superiors to the world.