You’re still married. Your husband and mom are worried about you. He’ll trample your daisies, drink all your water, burn out your lights and black both your eyes. He’ll fuck you until he’s bored with your pussy. He’ll toss you like an empty greasy French fries carton. He’ll find a woman he can’t live without and you’ll be alone and everyone including God will singsong, “Told you so! Told you so!” Shut the fuck up, you sad ass Disney hell choir. You joy killing fucktards. Go rent a Tom Hanks video and cry into your artery clogging buttered microwave popcorn. This may be temporary. This may be immoral. This may be really bad karma. This may be the ship you’ve been waiting for on your tiny tropical island in the South Pacific. You’re getting on, you’re riding, and you’re demanding champagne and fluffy towels the color of eggplants and blueberries. Right now everything is groovy, baby. He calls you “angel” and “baby” and his love choked voice ain’t lyin’. Right now he tells you he’ll never tire of looking into your eyes, watching them change colors just for him. Right now is so good you wouldn’t sell it to the highest bidder or give it away to the most pathetic panhandler. Right now is yours and his. You are the babies of the world. You are loved. Adored. Explored at leisure. An excavated treasure too wild and transient for any museum. You are smug. Hugged. Shrug off tomorrow and all the stupid worries and anxieties. This is not math or grammar or American history. This is recess and he is pushing your swing the highest. You are flying, not caring about falling down and going BOOM.

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