My husband is hotter than you and yours.

Flolloping is an action that, according to author Douglas Adams in the book Life, the Universe and Everything, only live mattresses living in the swamps of Scornshellous Zeta are able to perform. Douglas Adams has never seen me try to move after a ten mile bike ride. (I’d write him a letter to inform him of his error, but he is no longer with us and his remains probably don’t care.) I feel like a mattress would presumably feel trying to move itself, only I am not as overjoyed as the mattress was in the book—because I’m not a fucking mattress. (If I were a mattress, I’d be an innerspring mattress with a few broken coils. I’d also have a shitty floral print that can only be described as looking exactly like your grandmother’s life would look if your grandmother’s life could be summed up as a floral print.)

What I’m trying to get at here, is how out of shape I am—if I’m not getting at it well enough it’s because I’m too fat and lazy right now to reach for the subject and bring it off of the shelf. (And if I could reach it and nudge it down, it’d probably crush me. I’m that heavy.) I’m not being negative right now, I’ve long since determined that I must be better looking than most other people—fat or not—as my husband is the asian male equivalent of a bombshell. (Don’t question me, he is better looking than you and your spouse and he’ll probably leave me when he realizes how much hotter he is than I am.) A while ago I came to terms with my weight, probably about the same time I grew out my beard—it hides my least favorite part of my body, the little bit of flub that sits just below my jaw. (Flub doesn’t mean what I want it to, but it feels right so it stays. Deal with it.)

My husband doesn’t have a weight problem—in fact, he has lost 30 pounds since he left for New Jersey. It has gotten to the point where I am fairly certain he is molecularly unstable—if he doesn’t collapse in on himself and go all supernova sometime soon I’m going to jump off a bridge because that surely means physics is a lie curated to keep us grounded and that I am able to fly.

Stephen Battey

Stephen Battey

Stephen is a 25 year old amateur photographer, blogger, and husband from Tacoma, Washington. He shares a cute ass house with his husband, cat, and two dogs. He generally hates all weather patterns.

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