If Mittens believed in divorce, and got rid of that woman he calls a wife, then he might actually have a shot at winning this election. Which I definitely don’t want him to do, so I guess that makes me a fan of Anne Romney.
If Mittens believed in divorce, and got rid of that horrid woman he calls a wife, then he might actually have a shot at winning this election. Which I definitely don’t want him to do, so I guess that makes me a fan of Anne Romney? I’m definitely a fan of her twitter account.
Anyway, according to some website with too much Flash on it that I just now googled, mormons are okay with divorce, so here’s what should happen: Mittens should divorce/kill Anne, then go mend his broken heart in New York City by disappearing into the dirty sexy social circles of trust fund kid wannabe magazine editors, a six month blur in which he is spotted wearing skinny jeans and screaming at a homeless guy in Queens, culminating in a torrid affair with Peaches Geldof. Peaches and her band of merry klonopin addicts allow Mittens to live out the dream he always had in college of becoming an artisan cocktail designer, but when his first recipe book, in which he rants for 30 pages about the bourbon conspiracy and how the Chinese are stealing our gin industry, is panned by critics, his new friends abandon him. He starts wandering around the country, hiding his billionaire status and playing steel guitar on street corners for bus fare.
We meet on the Wrightsville Beach Pier, where I completely fail to recognize him until we’re three beers in, because he goes by Will. I convince him that his attempt to solve his existential crisis with a hobo odyssey is just another way of running from his problems, and then we spend the next three years engaged in a protracted conversation/biography interview, hashing out all his latent childhood issues with mormonism, rejection, being groomed for destiny ect. We move to Moscow shortly after the book hits the NYT bestsellers list, and spend the rest of our days reigning over the Russian literary scene. Will starts to make his own vodka, I experiment with pickled beets and homemade rye bread. We live in a townhouse with wisteria in the backyard. He is fond of telling people I’m the smartest woman he knows.
Paul Ryan and I meet at the Airport Marriott after I respond to his Craigslist casual encounters ad. He wants me to slap him repeatedly and humiliate him, just like those girls in high school. Afterwards, we sit around the hotel room for two days discussing women’s rights, and I totally turn him on to Nick Cave. I give him my copy of Murder Ballads. We never talk again.
Chris and I meet in college, when he’s working part time at the car dealership next to the bar I go to on Sunday nights. We have a series of one night stands that make it seem like we have a real connection, but he is incapable of admitting any weakness, and leaves me heartbroken at the end of summer. Years later, he contacts me. He is going through his first divorce and misses me. I hate him, but the pain is old enough I think I can take it, and we meet for drinks. Immediately we fall in together again, but even though he starts paying for my apartment, and buys me a car, he refuses to say he loves me. We fight constantly, but he always expects that I’ll come back, and I always do because he expects it. We continue this affair for decades. He moves me to a Washington townhouse, and I cheat on him with every lobbyist I can pick up. He knows, in fact I think he likes it, he likes winning over them again and again. I feel completely powerless. He never lies to me, or cheats on me, but at his funeral years later I will recall that he only ever gave me three compliments in 40 years. 1) He told me I was sexy the first time we slept together, 2) that he thought I was brilliant, once, in the first week we met, and 3) when he told me I seemed “well adjusted.”
After he dies, I immediately marry a 24 year old grad student who is only using me to write a tell all book about our affair, but I don’t care because he thinks I’m fascinating and tells me so all the time.
I went to the convention on a dare with my friend who was pretending to be a journalist. It was a terrible day, full of lots of walking and lots of biting my tongue. Exhausted, we found the closest gay bar to our hotel, and sat there for a few hours drinking Goldshlager and birthday cake shots. My friend went back to the hotel to pass out. I was too wired with righteous anger to go to bed quite yet, so I stayed behind. I got up to use the restroom. Sitting in the ladies room, I heard someone else come in, which was weird because there were no other girls there, but I finished peeing, and walked out. He was standing there, waiting for me I guess. I had seen him hanging around the back of the bar, staring into his glass, looking out of place like every other uptight out of place visiting Republican.
“Hey, um, I saw you sitting there by yourself and thought you might want to party.” He held out a little twisted up cellophane of cocaine.
It was terribly weird; how could I say no? So we did lines off my compact. Afterwards we went out into the bar, and ignoring the terrible looks from the bartender, proceeded to play the entire ELO catalog on the jukebox. He knew every word. I didn’t tell him I knew who he was, and he never brought it up. Instead we talked about the pure ascendency of ELO over every other type of music, except maybe Queen and then we left and went to a karaoke bar, where we sang Bohemian Rhapsody and he killed it on the vibrato. It occurred to me several times that I should be snapping pictures on my cellphone and selling this story, but the pure pathos with which he sang, the awkwardness of his dancing, the naked longing for simple connection with another human being, kept my cellphone in my pocket.
At the end of the night, after the very last bar we could find had closed, we hugged and said goodbye.
In the dark hotel room, curtains drawn shut, his skin gives off a glow like city lights reflecting on horizon clouds in the distance, soft and subtle. I sit in the corner watching him. He does not know I’m here. He’s so far into his annual molting process that he’s unaware of anything except the sensation of his body shutting down. His eyes are closed, and his breathing shallow.
I snuck in here, having paid off one of the hotel room staff whose sister is a public school teacher. I waited and tracked his movements to find this perfect time. I could tell it was coming because for days the tone of his skin had increasingly resembled burnt umber, with the loose sickening texture of coagulated yogurt.
Slowly, a blue flame starts to light up his face. All the molecules in his body are turning to sulfurous fire, and as each cell incinerates they give off these particular sparks, it reminds me of St. Elmo’s Fire, an omen of bad weather ahead. The combustion process takes an hour, maybe a little less. I don’t move, though at this point it could hardly matter, his brain is deep within its hormonal coma. The room smells like asparagus and petroleum.
When it’s over, he lies there unconscious, his new skin white and shining raw wet, like a newborn. I know he will wake up in a few minutes, so I slip out. As I leave the hotel and walk off into the muggy summer night, I feel in my bones the varied and beautiful complexity of nature, that can make such creatures as this.
Photo–Flickr/caricaturist nonpareil DonkeyHotey