I'm heading downstairs when Top Management says, "you're going to be so mad at me when you get to your computer."
I am, obviously, highly dubious. We've been together for [quickly does math and comes up with either 21 or 37 years and either seems plausible] some time now and I've not once been less than overjoyed with every single aspect of her (with the obvious exception of her bank account which is not nearly as overflowing with doubloons as I'd anticipated one belonging to a poetry major would be).
And then I get downstairs. And she was right, as usual.
I'd sorta kinda expected to see some delicious yet terrible for me treat to be awaiting me.
Instead, I saw these photos in my inbox.
I remember when I once loved my wife, five minutes ago, before she reached into my chest, ripped out my heart and slapped it onto the floor, cackling madly as she danced in its gory remains.
(It's possible I do not care for the passage of time, in general.)
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