1:02—The woman painted golden. It’s clear she’s a runway model, lithe, almost gaunt. So I would marry her, yes, but it’d be a rocky marriage, filled with cocaine, holding her hair as she throws up, and tearful rants about a fashion world that I would not understand.
1:13—The woman in the mauve dress who jumps on the couch. My wife, as she flies through the air then lands, is smiling. And that’s terribly whimsical of her, but will her whimsy lead her to crafting? Does she want to go to antique stores, too? Will there be yarn based projects, unfinished, lying around the house?
1:18—The woman with the slingshot. Physically, this woman, my possible mate for life, is without peer. Though that’s precisely the problem. When her and I go out every goddamn Tom, Dick, Harry with a beard, glasses, and a screenplay will be trying to work their unwashed hands down her pants.
1:22—The woman with the sparklers. Okay, they’re just sparklers. But let me point out that my potential wife is handling these sparklers, topless. And while that appeals to me at the basest of levels, over a lifetime, I’d sure I’d find myself in the basement of one of our “friends,” strapped to a very uncomfortable table, having things poured and clamped on me that, frankly, I do not think I’d be able to handle.
2:14—The woman who sucks another woman’s toes. Yes, of course, she’s very beautiful, the dark hair, the glasses, the red fingernails, the sucking. Great. Of course it’s great. But, let’s be real for a second, if my wife has inclinations toward polyamory, I’m done. I’d like to think I’d be fine with it, but what do I do when she calls out, just a bit louder, for someone else?
2:47—The women wearing a pastoral purple dress who lights a cigarette with a raven’s beak. Clearly, this, my androgynous wife has read everyone from Lovecraft to Dreiser and back again. Though if I’m not the well-read one in the relationship, what can I bring? Knowing the difference between Phil Dumatrait and Alex Burnett is just not enough.
2:51—The woman who smashes eggs on her head. Before the eggs are running down her face, her parted bangs, those are the parted bangs of my wife. But, I just don’t know. The issue here may be one of aesthetics. I don’t believe in art which requires humiliation on part of the viewer or the subject. Humiliation for the artist, that’s another story.
3:37—The woman wearing black stockings which rise above her knees. With her, I don’t see a problem. This could be it. Just need to move to Mexico City, buy a plaid jacket, and get one of those leather bags that strap across my body. I’d buy one of those terrible things, if it were for my wife.