Dear future wife, I come from the past to warn you about the terrible mistake you’re about to make – marrying me.
I’m not going to be your knight in a shining armor, or your “help” in fixing up things in the house. I’m not going to love you, at least not in the way you’ll want to be loved. Even if I do, it’ll be a brother-sister love. In your eyes, I’ll be the man of your dreams, but don’t be fooled; I’m going to be your worst nightmare and you, my bane.
We’re never going to have that wild spontaneous sex you read about and watch in Hollywood movies; ours will be more like a zombie mating with a corpse, strictly for reproduction purposes. There’ll be no kissing, no foreplay, no romance. You’ll often get horny and I won’t be there to satisfy you. Our lovemaking will be vapid and frigid like a storm in a cold November.
I’ll often get drunk before having intercourse with you, so I won’t have to endure the torture of the horrendous experience. So I’ll forget what happened, so I’ll be able to breathe throughout the day without feeling like throwing up or jumping in front of a moving car.
You’re never going to experience orgasm with me, yeah, that elusive female orgasm which only male experts or expensive dildos know how to conjure up. I’m no pussy expert and I’m not interested in being one. I’d rather slam my tongue against a door than think about it.
I’m not going to cuddle you at night when you’re cold. I like sleeping alone. You’ll often feel alone and unloved; well, honey, you’d be right to feel so. The smell of your pussy makes me wanna wish my life away, it puts me in a state of agony and despair. Touching you sends chills down my spine, it feels as if I’m touching a life-sized serpent with legs and a vagina.
I’m not going to kiss you goodbye when you’re stepping out of the house, nor am I going to kiss you goodnight when you’re about to sleep. I’m often going to be emotionally detached and you’re going to wonder why. You’ll try to make me let you in, but I’ll keep shutting you out.
When you eventually give birth to our children, I’ll love them more than I love you. They’ll become my pet project, to take my attention away from living with you.
You’d often wonder why I look at your brother Toby when he comes to visit; he has nice cakes and a chiseled look, that’s why. Yeah, honey, I eat ass for breakfast and cock for dinner.
Honey, by now you must think I’m heartless, but I assure you I’m not. If the reverse was the case, I’m sure you’d do worse. I mean you couldn’t even stay a week with your sister without blowing up the roof with your ranting and petty bickering, let alone spending your entire life with another girl you’re supposed to love and fuck.
So, my darling, I implore you to consider the epistle above, and if after it all, you still decide to proceed with the marriage, then fine. It’s your funeral. However, when you eventually get tired of putting up with my impossible attitude (as I’m sure you will), you can always find a divorce lawyer, and I’ll be waiting, preparing for my “single ladies” routine in court.