March 18, 2010
"Turn it off." I crossed my arms.
"What, did you say TURN IT UP?" You smiled as you inched the knob to the right, kicking it up a few notches. You seemed to delight in watching my face tense up.
I plugged my ears with my fingers in defiance. I narrowed my eyes. "I'm gonna kill him." I thought. "I'm gonna fucking kill him."
"It's alright, it's alright/ She moves in mysterious ways," you sang about three inches from my face. "Come on, babe. Sing along." Then, you moved your hands in a wobbly, psychedelic shape.
At first, I tried to laugh it off. "Haha! You really got me there! Now, turn it off or I'm gonna puke. I'm not even kidding."
Buoyed with finding my Achilles heel in the U2 cannon, you now try to sneak it in everywhere we go. You downloaded it to your iPod for this expressed purpose. You'll play it in the car when we're going to Trader Joe's or when we're cooking dinner in your kitchen and it will take all of my willpower to not stab you in the throat with a salad tong. The worst is when you blast it when I'm in the shower and I can't reach the stereo. I'm soapy, naked, and aggravated and you're holding your sides, laughing your ass off.
If we're not near a stereo, you'll lean in to kiss my neck but then just start singing, "If you wanna kiss the sky, better learn how to kneel. On your knees, boy!" Alright, that kinda cracks up, but I can't laugh because I don't want to encourage you.
All I want out of life is to live in a "Mysterious Ways"-free universe. Is that too much to ask? Sometimes, I think it is.