Together: Another Word Dissection brought to you by the insane mind that is Deon Mumple. I have a short dissection today; if you like them, you might really like this one because it’s like a good sermon: short.
Ok, I have a confession to make. We’re not just married. We’re living together. Mrs M and I might as well be living in sin. Well, that’d be more fun I suppose. And hence the origin of my word dissection. I suppose that since Word starts with “W” I should start a “thing” where I do “Word Dissection Wednesday.” Well, fuck that, it’s not going to happen on any regular schedule because I write whatever I’m inspired to write. And today, it’s “together.” I don’t really have the mental faculty to stick with a “thing.” So if you’re into those, I’m sorry.
It’s come to my attention that we’re living “together.” More to the point, I’m living “together.” You’re reading this saying to yourself, Deon is a fruitbat. He’s fucking out of his gourd. But wait.
I’m living “to-get-her.” Ah, you say, that makes sense. Or maybe not.
I WANT “to get her.” Which I think might be the goal of a guy deciding to live “to-get-her” with someone. Maybe it’s just the alcohol talking. Or maybe not. She’s the prize. Mrs. M is all that, a bag of chips, a sack lunch, and a roll. In the sack. Which is awesome. I’ll take the prize, if I can get her.
I’ve got a “honey-do list, which fucking SUCKS. But if I get her, it’s worth it. I think if more men lived “to-get-her” and to keep her, a lot of ladies would be much, much happier in life.
I’m a bit jealous of the word dissection. I wish there was a living “to-get-him.” But there isn’t. WHY, Language inventors,WHY!!!???
Am I not a prize? Am I not worthy of pursuit? I, and all man-kind with me? Well, honestly, I’ve met a lot of men who weren’t worth shit, or worth their skin, or worth much of anything. But damn it. I want to be worth pursuit, and I want Mrs. M to realize it.
Until then, because I want to be worth more than shit, more than my own skin, worthy to-get-her, I’m going to keep on living “to-get-her.” Speaking of which, I’ve got this damned “honey-do” list and so I’m going to go work on that. To get her. Might not happen the way I want, but that remains to be seen. “Hope springs eternal,” the poet wrote.
Dishes. Garden. Trash.
Fuck. Is there an easier way to-get-her? Or is the work all part of the “joy” of the conquest? Shouldn’t it be simpler to-get-her after more than 20 years?