Darling Husband,
How do I even start? As a child, I envisioned a partner who would sweep me off my feet with charm and charisma. From the moment we crossed paths 15 years ago, you were that person. With your infectious laughter, captivating blue eyes, and that endearing middle schooler flirtation, I was completely smitten. And when you fell for me, I felt like the luckiest person alive!
You were everything I dreamed of: dedicated, fun-loving, and possessing a heart as golden as the sun. Your essence was like a fragrant bouquet. Okay, I can’t say for certain about that last bit, since we didn’t share the bathroom back then, but I thought there was no way a perfect specimen like you could produce anything unpleasant. Right?
Fast forward a decade into our marriage, and I’m thrilled to say little has changed. Your laughter still fills my heart with joy, and your juvenile humor keeps me in stitches. Thanks to Poo-Pourri, it’s almost like your emissions smell like a garden of roses!
However, we need to address a rather pressing matter—an elephant in the room, if you will. When I wished for someone to sweep me off my feet daily, I didn’t mean literally. Nowhere in my romantic fantasies did I anticipate that Mr. Perfect would send me fleeing with your relentless, noxious gas.
Your flatulence, dear heart. Oh my!
I truly adore you, but those fumes are something else. When I pledged “until death parts us,” I meant every word. But I must warn you—if you Dutch-oven me one more time, our timeline may speed up towards that death part!
What dies in your body after dinner seems to resurrect with a vengeance, and I can hardly catch my breath. I know you want me to stay alive; you like me, right?
I’m a strong woman, as you know, having brought our children into the world like a total champion. But your pungent gas has me at my breaking point.
And yes, I’m aware that our romantic escapades have diminished as of late. Here’s the reality: there’s no way I’m getting anywhere near that danger zone until we resolve this issue. Your lower half is now a restricted area—sorry, babe, but I’m not taking that risk!
I realize this may come across as harsh, but please know that my love for you remains steadfast. I’ll stand by your side through thick and thin. And this definitely qualifies as “thin.”
Let’s address the core issue: what are you consuming, my dear? I prepare our meals, so you must be sneaking in some shady snacks. Pickled dog turds, perhaps? I jest, but seriously—if we’re eating the same meals daily, and your body is reacting this way while mine is not, we should investigate further.
Have you thought about visiting a doctor? It’s entirely possible something is amiss. Could you have molten lava intestines? We should check into that. At the very least, let’s discuss irritable bowel syndrome—what do you say? I’ll be there every step of the way, and we could even use a silly alias like Penelope Fartworth or Cloudy McStinkface. Fun, right?
I don’t mean to hurt your feelings; I realize this situation is just as unpleasant for you. I’m really hoping we can clear the air—literally. That Poo-Pourri can only do so much!
With love,
Your devoted partner.
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