Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:
So, Sweetpea, have you recovered from the information you learned yesterday about my dark past? I know, you never would have expected all those horrible stories to come from me. But, just like you, I’ve got my baggage; I’m sure we’ll learn to accept each other’s quirks and blemishes on the record of our childhood. What choice do we have? We’ve already signed the pre-nup…
In case you haven’t caught on yet, I’m trying desperately to soften the blow here. Why? Well, because, I have more bad-to-the-bone skeletons in my closet. In the best interest of our relationship and future happiness, I’ll just get right to the unearthing, earth-shattering revelations.
I do have a teeny tiny track record of being unfaithful. His name was M-I-C-K-E-Y, and although he was just a mouse, he understood me, never judged me and thought I was even more beautiful than Minnie. But I think I’ve broken all ties permanently, so you shouldn’t have anything to worry about. Unless you’ve been out philandering with Minnie – then, we definitely have something to talk about. If I ever catch you two making googly eyes over a plate of cheese, I’m running right back into Mickey’s oversized, cuddly arms. Got it?
Gosh, I hope you’re not one of those tree-hugging, down-with-commercialism-and-materialism types. Because from a young age, I championed all things capitalism. I was so in love with money (and still am) that I had dreams of rolling in it. All those green bills…everywhere…all…mine. What was I talking about again? Oh, yes, my dreams of rising to the top as the new Donald Trump (what’s he up to these days wherever you are?). I shall have a huge empire with giant billboards all over New York City displaying an oversized Glamour Shot of me – airbrushing and photoshopping not necessary, of course! You can’t really blame me for my love of capitalism; it’s not exactly my fault. I was born during the era of Reaganomics. It runs in my blood.
So we’ve already established that I’m a girl who loves her food, right? Well, these pictures show that I’m definitely not ashamed of that fact. But don’t get too happy just yet. I may love food, but that first picture is no indication that I’ll be one of those June Cleaver, apron-wearing, apple-baking, pouring-you-your-after-work-cocktail sort of wife. If anything, you’ll be doing all those things for me. Or, even better…we can do them together. Gender gaps have shortened even more by the time we get married, right? Gosh, I truly hope so, or I’ll just have to take matters into my own hands and shorten them myself. And don’t think I won’t, either.
Until we meet…