XXX

I thought that title might grab your attention. Funny thing; I had to rely on my old friend, Pornhub, to tell me the tier rating on X’s. How many is appropriate? If I’m not mistaken, there is a Triple X pro-wrestler. As it turns out, Triple H is the wrestler [could have been awkward], The XX is a musical group, and porn seems to go from X rated directly to XXX. So, there you have it – in case you were curious.

I have a very active imagination. It helps me survive most days. It leaves me smiling awkwardly by myself long after others have moved on. In my mind however, the story has evolved, and it’s funny as hell. It also sets me up for unrealistic expectations. Allow me to illustrate.

I have this recurring fantasy that one day I’m going to come home from work and my boyfriend, having been home all day, is going to walk up to me, grab me firmly by the shoulders while looking into my eyes and say, “You need to go sit down, I have dinner covered, honey”.

I’ve seen that meme; the one where the guy picks her up, carries her into the room, lays her down on the bed, and proceeds to clean the entire house. That’s some Roald Dahl fantasy fiction. I don’t believe in giants, overgrown peaches or talking insects and arachnids. I do, however, believe in God. In my home, it’s the Xbox One.

I’m certain that if that piece of plastic had a set of tits and a hole that read “insert dick here”, I’d be obsolete. Cereal is a viable dinner option and if he’s in a place in the game where he can hide behind some shrubbery for a minute, he can pop a TV dinner in the microwave. The other things that I regularly take care of around the house will eventually become a health and safety issue; if he doesn’t address it, the neighbors will eventually call it in. I clearly don’t have any issues with the amount of gaming that’s done in my home though – clearly.

Please don’t mistake me; I like to play from time to time also. I usually don’t do it for 7 hrs. straight though and can tell when it interferes with my basic living. If I didn’t need that damn machine for my Netflix and Hulu accounts, I’d “accidentally” drop it into the bathtub while I was “dusting” it. Might be difficult to explain, but I used to be a decent liar, I’d be willing to try again.

Some time last week I came home from work and desperately wanted to be told “Go sit down, honey, I got this.” Much to my fucking dismay, that’s not what happened. My boyfriend, whom I love very much, sat on the edge of our coffee table and played video games while I stomped around the kitchen banging cabinet drawers and pots and pans like some one-man, passive-aggressive marching band. It might have been easier to ask for help, but where’s the fun in that? Then I’d have nothing to bitch about later and certainly nothing to write about.

In the days since this incident first transpired he’s been super helpful (mostly), which makes it hard to post this, but he’ll understand. If he doesn’t…well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. Ultimately, I carry the power around with me always. It’s called pussy. Do I like having this much power? You’re damn right I do!

With great power comes great responsibility.