I'm moving in with my girlfriend today. Let me say that again: I'm moving in with my girlfriend today. Hoo boy… Let's see. Did I pack up the comic books? What about the porn? Can't forget the porn! Ummm… Let's see, what else am I forgetting. Nuts. I cant forget my nuts!!! I need to make sure they are securely fastened to the base of my vag-hammer; being a vagitarian is hard work!
I don't fear change. I really don't, but today represents the first time I've lived with a girlfriend that I didn't score from a sex trafficking racket. More than that, it's the first time I've moved in about ten years… I think that is what scares me more. So why am I doing it?
Sure, a healthy dose of love has a lot to do with it, probably a touch of fear as well. It's time to move on with life and do this thing with a co-pilot (not the sex thing you perverts). I think the thing that scares me is there is no “home” to go to when the woman gets pissed off… I AM home! That's cool though, I can make amends with that detail. To survive, though, I need to make some rules; ground rules to live by, you know.
The “Woman Shalt Maketh Me a Sandwich Accords”
1. Make me as many sandwiches as I can eat… Whenever I want.
2. Sex on Demand
3. More sandwiches
4. When my woman has offended me by telling me a lie, such as saying I'm wrong, she will take a two hour walk, buy me a sandwich and then walk for another hour an reflect on how she should apologize. “Isn't that what the sandwich is for?” you ask. I hope you feel fortunate knowing that such a question does not warrant the stinging contact from my pimp hand.
5. Sofia, over at Doing Laundry in Heels, has a great concept there. Therefore, I'd like to take that a step further. In addition to making me sandwiches, my woman will do so wearing a little black dress and heels.
The more things change, the more they stay the same?
I've been told by many of my friends “Man! You're living in a dream world. That shit ain't gonna happen.” While that's the likely truth of the matter, it doesn't mean a man can't dream.
At the end of the moving day, there I sat… Slumped over on my girlfriend's squashy couch… Drinking water. When I thought to myself: “This is OUR squashy couch.” There was a moment there, for me. That moment was telling for a couple of reasons: Reality of my decision and new situation were settling in; and I sure hope no one thinks I'm a pussy for having a couch like this.
Luckily for me, if that couch does make me look like a bit of a puss, at least I am what I eat.
Okay, now breathe!