My Buttercup

Over the weekend it was determined that, given the opportunity, Alex would leave me for James Blunt.

The irony, of course, being that last month I bought her a ticket to see Mr. Blunt in concert come April 3rd.

I know this sounds crass and heartless, being that we just celebrated our 11th anniversary, but I’ll get over her leaving.

I sort of already have someone lined up.

Yes, I will be formalizing my relationship with our new Dyson.

Reenactment 1

/cue the ducks

Neighbor: I saw that you got a Dyson! Which model did you buy?
Me: The Succubus.
Neighbor: Huh?
Me: I take my leave, good sir.
/closes curtains

For those of you uninitiated, let me just say that in fact or fiction the only device with anywhere near the sucking power of my Dyson is Count Rugen’s Machine in Princess Bride, and then only set to full throttle. In fact, I accidentally lifted the Dyson while it was running and the sound was frighteningly similar to a drunken semi driver running roughshod over the rumble strips along Interstate 5 at 75 miles per hour.

RAAHRRRAHRRRAHRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

Reenactment 2

/cue the ducks

/Alex barges in to find me alone with the Dyson

Alex: You truly love each other, and so might have been truly happy. Not vun couple in century has dees chance, no matter vut zee storybooks say. And so I theenk no man in century vill suffer as greatly as you vill.

/Alex switches on the Dyson

Brandon: NOT TO FIFTY!

/But it’s too late. I lie motionless, my oats sown all over the room, a dervish grin the only sign I once knew happiness.

My last word sounds very much like ‘Buttercup…’

Of course, I only died in the FIGURATIVE and not LITERAL sense of the word. In fact, I’m actually re-energized. Revibrant, you might say, if that were an actual word. And I’m fast at work on a list of special attachments I will be sending to the design team at Dyson HQ.

Your move, Blunty.