Hi, I’m Bob.
Look, I can’t get me any San Diego Momma lovin’, so I thought I’d come to the blog hole, where she spends every flocking minute and get her to notice me, just pay attention for one minute. I’m dying over here. So I’m going to air our dirty laundry in public. Maybe she’ll listen now.
San Diego Momma? Don’t you love me anymore? I just can’t talk to you these days. You never let me vent my feelings, never take out me out for some rock n’ roll or a good tumble, never say “hello” even or “talk dirty to me.”
Did I let myself go? I know we made a pact that I wouldn’t get too big, but I need some support here. I’ve still got it, right? That tousled look you fell in love with?
I’m sorry, there’s just nothing I can do about the pear shape. Or the unfortunate resemblance to Carrot Top.
But you knew that when we met.
I’m lonely, San Diego Momma. I sit in the closet all day, filling up with more self loathing and disgust by the minute. I’ve got so much heaped up inside that it stinks, it really stinks.
I don’t know what to do anymore. I fall at your feet, spread myself across the ground you walk on, sprawl on your bed even, but you just push me aside, say “maybe tomorrow.”
I’m going to be blunt: You come do me or I’ll tell your husband about us.
Ah, I’ve got you now, don’t I? Do you really think he believed that was milk on your collar? And what about the underwear? Don’t you think he wonders why you don’t wear any? That’s right! It’s because I have it all. Every stinkin’ last one.
Think about it San Diego Momma. I’m sick of being ignored. You change your ways or I’ll start slinging the mud.
And you know I’m good at that.
Clean up your act, lady or I’ll sully your good name.
Le Sullier (remember when you gave me that nickname? we were in France and you fell in that cowpie?), Bob
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