No matter how many times you say it, I am not a whore.
After my most recent date with Marjorie, an all-day sugar-filled flash-passed affair at Six Flags, it seemed appropriate to purchase commemorative couple’s shirts. All editions were sold out except for the “I’m looney for him” and “I’m looney for her” shirts. The day went so well that we didn’t even care that the shirts were corny. We were full of bliss, ICEEs, and young love … all to be subsequently crushed by you.
“Why are you wearing that disgusting shirt,” you said, when I got home. “Because it’s true. I’m looney for Marjorie,” I replied. That was true. I know it’s against our religion to wear such shirts. We need to be silent and treat every romantic relationship as if we’re in the KGB. But I’m over that, Dad. “You’re a whore,” you said, after I spilled my heart out to you. And although you tried so hard to put me down, I felt stronger than ever wearing that t-shirt. I felt alive. I felt like I could do and say anything.
So I have something to say to you.
No dad, you’re the whore!