Page 1 of Plight
Twenty-two years ago, Ipromised myself to a boy. We were eight years old. Neighbours. He gave me a Cheezel, pushed it onto my finger, and asked me to marry him.
I ate the Cheezel.
I also said, “Yes” but that we’d have to wait until I turned thirty. Back then, thirty was more like fifty, which was more like one hundred — I wasn’t planning on getting married when I was one hundred.
Anyway, my thirtieth birthday was last week, and now that boy, that Cheezel bestowing boy, is calling in that promise.
Seriously, Elliot Parker is insane if he thinks that a private Facebook message stipulating the binding law of an oral contractual agreement is going to seal our twenty-two-year bullshit deal. In. Sane.
I wonder if he really does look like his profile picture, though.
