It's a great song by Dolly Parton. Real blue-grass with mandolins and everything. Makes me want to cry every time I hear it.
But I don't think you've met my Baby. Not the car. The one asleep in the next room.
He's messy and difficult. He's crazy as hell. He's getting older at about the same rate rate I am. With everything going against him, I still love him like there's no tomorrow.
We have tomorrow to work on the neatness and sanity part. He's mine. He's all I have, and I cherish him, crazy, skinny legs and all. One could do worse. And I have.
That's a topic we shall never speak of.
Even the thought of Pyscho-Bob sends me reeling. I should have known that when I woke up next to him that first morning and the first thing I saw was "BOB" tattooed on his arm that I was in for trouble.
I should have run screaming from the room when he told me that he had his name tattooed on his arm so people wouldn't wake up and not know his name.
My Baby's not like that. Sure, he's tried to be a big a slut as me (not sure anyone can top me on that one).
We're both looking for the same things, me and Baby. It doesn't involve having to have you name tattooed on your arm so that whatever trick you wake up with remembers your name. It doesn't involve tricks, at all.
7 plus years later (we can never settle on a firm date of when we actually committed), we're still together. Not as long as some people, but long enough.
My Baby is asleep in the next room, and I'm going to join him soon. It's late. I'm tired. And falling asleep next to the person I love is about the best way I can think of ending a day.
Till next time.
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