Fuck You Monkey
◊ The boyfriend loved his Valentine's Day present.
The Fuck You Monkey
I tore the heart off a sappy little Valentine's Day plush monkey, embroidered "fuck you" onto it and reattached the heart.
He, like myself, immediately seized on the merchandising possibilities of such a gift. Over burritos (and attached together at the wrist by handcuffs joined by a foot-and-a-half-long chain -- his idea for the night), we devised a whole line of t-shirts, cards and other small plush animals to accompany the Fuck You Monkey.
The romantic theme lasted well past V-Day. Last night, well-rested after spending the previous day immersed in sleep, oral sex and video games, we crashed into people and sloshed beer on them as we slow-danced during a couple of down-tempo songs at the Supersuckers show at the Blank. I somehow managed to stay upright on my four-inch heels as we charged across the slick floor, him with one arm around me and the other straight out in front of us, holding my hand -- and my beer -- in his. Nobody around us seemed to mind the collisions too much.
Then again, it's probably hard to get mad at a couple of drunk loonies slow-dancing at a punk show.
Sometimes I have to wonder if we were made for each other, or if we were just made as antidotes to each other -- like some higher power said "Uh-oh, these two look like trouble" and arranged for us to keep each other occupied, for the sake of the rest of humanity.