Okay, I did yell at your mom last night, but I promise by the Statue of Liberty’s right foot that it is not what you think. The evening started well enough, meeting your parents for a candlelight dinner. It was perfectly kind of them to give me that twelve foot cactus; I’ll put it in the dining room next to my Audubon Society “pelican” plate collection. I didn’t realize your dad was so drop dead good looking. I don’t think I’ve seen a man that handsome this side of Mexican telenovellas!
Given my dietary needs, I was thankful that three of the four courses were served in tin foil and contained only organic saffron, and I have to say I’ve never had free range Welsh rabbit before. Those curried floppy ears were delish! On all accounts, this would be the best dinner since Jesus’ last one.
I should have known that reanimating a corpse would come back to haunt me. I just never thought that it would occur during dinner. Now, grant me this: I stayed calm during the forced anal penetration. And to think I had planned the whole evening to propose a hetero-normative marriage to you in front of your made-to-order sexpot Mom and lustfully huggable Dad.
It had seemed so romantic when I got the idea from an episode of “Charles In Charge”. I don’t blame you for saying no. I would probably have done the same if my boyfriend of 2 months was calling my Mother an “idiot’s wetdream” and a “cumdumpster” while my Dad was in fisticuffs with a Zombie Corpse and my cactus.
I think the only mature thing to consider is a polygamous relationships between your dad, yourself, and I. We could try threesomes if you are game wherein we both give fellatio to your father while your mom breaks plates behind us to provide emotional support, or perhaps we should save some face and start slow with you and I getting all sexy like on Monday evenings with the rest of the week reserved for your hot pop and I to try out puppy love, 69 at the aquarium, and, of course, tied up inside your grandparents’ sarcophagus.
The problem arises with the seductive concept of free food — perhaps at a Super Bowl party, an employee staff meeting, a hotel continental breakfast. Those unguarded coffee cakes, muffins, potato chips, croissants, cookies, cereal, pasta — a thousand shades of empty brown carbs, sawdust disguised as food. I stuff my face and belly galaxies beyond their capacities on my way to feeling heavy, bloated, and exhausted. Inside my binges, I don’t actually taste or enjoy the food so much as shovel it repetitiously inside me. And my only stopping points are when the food is gone or when someone provides me that sexy look of disgust.
When I utilize the bathroom excrementally, I often do not lock the door. “Why?” is a question a wise child might ask. Two reasons: (1) I relish the danger of potentiality; and (2) if someone does wander in, the expressions and uncomfortablity of the situation are as priceless as a Taste of India buffet . 
The link below is a personality quiz entitled, “A Walk in the Woods.” My friend Courtney sent me this a while back and I found it insightful and unsettling. Just go with the first thoughts that pops into your little mind. 
