You love me? Wow, thanks. I really appreciate that. I mean, that’s really super great to hear. Very nice words, “I love you.” A little simple, if you ask me, but they get the point across. A little easy, like saying “I like purple things!” or “I’m going to buy some corn!” But I’m sure you think you mean it when you say it. I’m just not…feeling it. I don’t know for sure how to explain this.
OK, remember that song by Extreme? Goes something like, “But if you only knew how easy it would be to show me how you feel. More than words is all you have to do to make it real.” I know he was talking about boning in that song, but the basic premise applies here. If you really want to tell me you love me, you need to tell me with food. Edibles. Things I can put in my mouth and swallow that won’t make me feel guilty and used. I’m not picky here, seriously. I’ll eat pretty much anything, and be happy doing so. More than happy, ecstatic. I fucking love eating, and if you love me, you’ll help me fulfill that happiness.
That poem you wrote me is really nice, and I appreciate the fact that you did some studying up on me and realized I would like the standard Shakespearean sonnet form, but an enticing couplet and well-executed rhyme scheme won’t fill the cockles of my heart like a ten piece bucket from KFC. I was delighted when you suggested I meet your mom, and when you took me to that play and chivalrously took my coat off for me, and when you made me a playlist full of Magnetic Fields songs. Jesus, you even bought me a book on time travel and in my head I was thinking, “He’s so close!” But if you knocked on my door holding a bag of groceries including a can of cheez whiz, Chicken in a Biskit crackers, and two half-pound containers of Bob Evans microwaveable garlic mashed potatoes, I’d rip my clothes off and jump you on the spot. Use your imagination as to what use I would put the Cheez Whiz.
Back to Extreme. Later in the song it goes, “What would you say if I took those words away? Then you couldn’t make things new, just by saying I love you.” Yeah yeah, sex. Whatever. I can assure you saying “I want to do it with you” is going to be exponentially less effective than “I want to make you dinner, and it’s going to involve Velveeta processed cheese product.” That time you asked me if I wanted a backrub without asking for one in return was really great. I love backrubs. I’ll make obscene noises during backrubs. But imagining you pausing to hand me a Totino’s pizza folded in half and a Mt. Dew from behind my head and then resuming the backrub makes my loins all frothy. Hold on. I need a second.
I want to dribble ranch dressing on your inner thigh, rub a chicken wing in it, put it between your teeth, then lean in and take a bite of it. I want you to propose to me with a Ring Pop. I want you to understand that I will never ever, under any circumstances, order a salad at dinner. I get that there can be something inherently unattractive about a hungry woman. Sure, the sight of me with BBQ sauce smeared all over my face and down a portion of my neck might make your penis retract inward just a little bit. But I swear to fucking God, read to me at night from Rudolph’s weird movie-themed meat-engorged menu, and in about a minute and a half you’ll have to pry my legs off your hips and my teeth off your earlobe.
I’m really glad you love me. It makes me feel good to hear that. But I’m hungry, and it’d be really great if you ran to McDonald’s for me. And don’t get me any of that McDouble shit. You have to order a double cheeseburger or else you get one less slice of cheese which is apparently something they’re doing now, presumably just to piss me off. And a six piece McNugg. And a Dr. Pepper.
What were we talking about?
–Katie Sisneros‘s heart is in her stomach.