Frederico will DIE
You know Brooke’s hair? It’s blonde, and it just recently got long - to that perfect length that I love. Brooke has hair other women are jealous of. It’s perfect, and can go straight or curly and looks great either way. And the color is glorious. I was with Brooke and my sister in Atlanta this past weekend and my sister pointed out something that I always notice, that people tend to look and stare at Brooke a lot when we’re out. People usually look and stare at me too, but instead of it being because of my supreme beauty, it’s probably because I foam at the mouth and have a tendency to YELL every OTHER word THAT comes OUT of MY face HOLE.
A few nights ago I crawled into bed around 1:30 and turned on the light to read a little (it’s wonderful to have a wife who could literally sleep through an air raid. I can turn on the light and read as much as I want and never worry about waking her up). I looked over and Brooke had one eye peeking at me, kind of mischievously. Then I saw it.
The hair is now red. Kind of purple, really.
I sort of sat there and held my hand over my mouth, afraid of what I was going to say.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I like the blonde.” I replied.
“It’s red”
“It’s kind of purple, actually.”
“yea that’s not really what I was going for.”
“I like the blonde.”
It looks better today. It’s not as purple. I still kind of miss the hair color that I’ve known on my wife’s head for the past 10 years. It could be worse. She could have tattooed another man’s name onto her flesh. That definitely would have been worse. If I came home and she was like “look what I did today”, and the name “Frederico” was permanently inked onto her leg I would be like “Good bye, I’m going to drive my motorcylcle into a tree now.” Instead I just find myself saying “I like the blonde.”
Brian T. Murphy
A few nights ago I crawled into bed around 1:30 and turned on the light to read a little (it’s wonderful to have a wife who could literally sleep through an air raid. I can turn on the light and read as much as I want and never worry about waking her up). I looked over and Brooke had one eye peeking at me, kind of mischievously. Then I saw it.
The hair is now red. Kind of purple, really.
I sort of sat there and held my hand over my mouth, afraid of what I was going to say.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I like the blonde.” I replied.
“It’s red”
“It’s kind of purple, actually.”
“yea that’s not really what I was going for.”
“I like the blonde.”
It looks better today. It’s not as purple. I still kind of miss the hair color that I’ve known on my wife’s head for the past 10 years. It could be worse. She could have tattooed another man’s name onto her flesh. That definitely would have been worse. If I came home and she was like “look what I did today”, and the name “Frederico” was permanently inked onto her leg I would be like “Good bye, I’m going to drive my motorcylcle into a tree now.” Instead I just find myself saying “I like the blonde.”
Brian T. Murphy