You've survived four girlfriends, 18 Football Weekends, five room-paintings, countless lawn-mowings, the Bleach Incident of 2006, and hurtful stares from complete strangers. But mostly, you've survived the girlfriends. It wasn't easy. You're welcome.
This is your eulogy. You've had two head-holes for several years now, and the real one has long been dwarfed by the new one. You've given me your warmth and, finally, your structural integrity. You are physically incapable of staying on my body anymore, so I'm afraid it's time for a proper burial. Now, at the end, I'm grateful that it's me pulling your plug and not some fleeting girlfriend who makes fun of you to her physical therapist while she's banging him reverse-cowgirl-style.
That would have horrified me. Because you deserve a better death.
Note to reader: in the second picture, the shirt is not lying crumpled on the floor. I'm actually wearing it.
