Here's an odd little story someone might find amusing and could possibly prescribe due to some fancy-schmancy bewk larnin' regarding psychology (preferably on the psychosis of women).

I dig my girlfriend. Love her to death. But lately, she's been caught up at work due to one of her coworkers quitting, leaving her and one other to do the work of about four people. Now, back when she used to have time, she'd crash out at my place. It was grand waking up next to her. I'd escape early, go to a flower vendor, buy her a rose and place it in her grip while she slept. It was all sweet and emo and all that. Well, I figured that the one gnarly, graham cracker-sized G.I. pillow I had wasn't cutting it for both of us, although I had no problem with the thing. So, I went out and bought a new pillow. Top of the line, chock full of stuffing, even a new blue pillowcase. I had it for about two weeks before she finally decides to come on over to my place again. We sat around and chewed the fat. It had been a long time since we'd snuggled, so we commenced to do so. I pointed out the pillow and she gasped with delight and attacked it like a four year old girl would attack a teddy bear. She refused to have anything to do with me until she had properly squeezed it to ensure ripeness. Now, to go back to something I haven't mentioned yet: she's usually not as verbally emo as me. Possibly because English is a second language for her, and not one she's studied since junior high. Now, her emails are littered with little hearts and cute nicknames. All over a pillow. Women.

I still dig'em

Update: A few weeks after the Apocalypse that was Valentine's Day (12 Mar):

You'd think I would've learned, huh? You think I would've maybe saw a connection between squishy things and my girlfriend (hence why I'm still in the picture). Nope. Not my dumb ass. I went out and bought a little plush monkey for her. For Judgement Day. Complete with heart-studded boxer shorts. And she named it. She named it after me. And it got more lovin' than I did until i tried to throw out the fifth story window. I think the point was pushed a little hard when the little primate bastard was found strung up by his neck from a high precipice. It wasn't me though. I swear. But at least the circumstantial evidence doesn't point to me. And I still dig my girl. And I haven't seen the ape for a few weeks now. Apparently it gets the pleasure of sleeping with her every night. The little git. I'll find it yet.

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