The fucking cup! Why is the table crooked?
You broke the cup?
You broke the table!
The table is fine.
No, it’s bent!
Is that our wedding mug?
That’s one of the one’s from our gift registry?
Well, if it’s a wedding mug I’m pretty sure someone got it off our wedding registry.
We should never have anything new because you break things.
You broke the table.
My coffee is on the table. My coffee is doing fine on the table.
Maybe I can put it back together.
You break things that are beautiful.
Winding her up as much as I could I was interrupted by an irritating Crrrrccchhhhhhhgggghhhh! on the concrete.
Sounds like someone is dragging a fire hydrant.
Sounds like someone is inventing a spork.
The curse! The curse! hollered our neighbor Miss whatever her name is cause we don’t really know, cause she’s not really friendly, and her cat is a dick face.
Hi! We said.
Hey! We said. Then…
Just wave she’ll keep walking.
She’s so old she looks like an atari station.
She’s so old she looks like my grandmothers passport.
Is that old? I thought thise get renewed?
She doesn’t travel: the legs.
That’s too bad.
We should visit her.
A curse! A curse!
‘Once a mug from wedding breaks
A sign the marriage will shake.’
Your cat scratched me the other day.
Take heed, you little shits. The curse of the Marriage Mug is upon you!
We laughed it off and had sex that night and it was really something special. Incense, candles, oils, penguin mask — the works. The next weekend we stayed up dancing to our new/old record player, and our favorite Elvis song came on. (Here comes a musical by us)!
“Wise man say.. only—”
I remember when I was dating Greg — he loved this song.
We love this song.
I know. He loved it, too.
Why do you talk about him as if he’s dead.
What? When did that happen?
Oh my god.
We didn’t have sex that night. I was shaken, too. But you know, I met Greg once before; he can be a real show off. He once picked up the check at this restaurant in New York, and made a really big deal about it. I mean, c’mon he owned the restaurant — I’m sure he had a discount.
“I think I can cover this one.”
Asshole. Anyway, my wife tells me his brother Neil is in town and she’s going to go to Rhode Island for the services. Great, there goes the weekend.
Month goes by and we’re having ice cream. My wife lets me taste her salted caramel, and she goes remember our fourth date in the East village? I say yup, and bend down to lick my cone, but at the last second — throw it over my shoulder instead.
What the fuck, jackass?
You just threw out that whole ice cream cone! Almost hit that woman.
“He did hit me actually.”
“Wasn’t a direct hit, but close and it splashed up and I got it on my sweater.”
“I just this got this from Target.”
We’re not that interested. Just take our apology and move on with your life.
What did you throw that cone?
Our fourth date. We were so drunk. We made up that game where we bent down to lick our ice cream, but instead threw it over our shoulder.
Our fourth date was In the Loop. We saw that movie. Do you want to see a movie.
Who did you play ‘waste ice cream’ with?
Who the fuck is Jackie?
My ex. The dancer.
Jackie the dancer?
Jackie Marcone the dancer?
There’s a whole thing on Facebook about her.
Probably, she works a ton with Alvin Ailey.
That’s not funny.
I swear to god I read it this morning: there’s an outpouring on twitter.
She died? How?
She danced off her roof.
What kind of sick fucking thing is that to say?!
Oh my god!
What’s happening to us!
It’s the curse! Oh, Jackie! There were so many other ex’s that could have died, and I wouldn’t have given a shit. Why did it have to be you!