Jeroen Johannes Bult- A Life.

My beloved  has been requesting for a while now that I write something about him, as he requires 100% of my attention 100% of the time – a desire which usually manifests itself by him yelling “I need hugs!” every time I make the mistake of making eye contact. When the response is “No, I’m busy”, he amps it up a notch by screaming “I want a puppy!” until I leave the room. It’s called romance, people.

When he requested something be written in his honour my initial response was  “Do you really think you’re going to like anything I write about you?”, which he somehow took offence to. I meant it nicely. I think. Sensing that some backtracking needs to be done, I have decided to relent.

Jeroen was born in The Netherlands on the 29th of August 1980. From an early age his mother instilled in him the guiding principal of his life, that being that he is a Prince and we, the common folk, his subjects. I am astounded that he hasn’t bought himself a crown to crest his thick, full head of hair and a throne to take centre place in our living room. I have a feeling he has not done this as it would clash with one of the 16,000 lamps we have in our house, for “mood lighting”, none of which are bright enough to read by.

We first met on a warm spring evening in 2006. Immediately, he was a fervent admirer of my physiological accomplishments*. Not long after our romance began he turned to me one evening and said “Y’know how some people have, like big round asses? Well, yours is more.. sort of.. long. Like how when women wear really high waisted pants that make their asses go from their knees to halfway up their back? Yours is like that. Loooooooooong.”

Obviously, I felt hot.

His commentary of my body parts, much like an anthropologist with a fetish for all things anatomically awkward, has continued for six, unrelenting years. He has brought to my attention: my big, flat, flipper-esque feet; my granny legs; my boring hands (to quote: “SO boring”); my ginger nipples (spaced slightly further apart than regular nipples, for viewing pleasure); my big bottom lip that makes my mouth hang open; my droopy eyelids; my eyebrows that are perpetually raised to offset the aforementioned droopy eyelids; the two ever-expanding protruding bumps above my eyebrows (one day hopefully useful for resting a beer on); and my ridiculous hair that grows in a swirly, cyclonic pattern and cannot be styled in any way.

Hmm. Actually, now that I’ve thought about it, I’m not going to write anything. Nothing. Not about him, nor his roast beef nipples.

Nope. It’s not happening.

Shh. I said it’s not happening.

NO YOU CAN’T GET A PUPPY.

*Has anyone seen the film Jane Eyre? The recent version, I mean. There is a scene in which a young girl asks her minders if they would like to see her “accomplishments”, which means showing them a dance she has learnt. Since watching this I have become obsessed with referring to anything I do as my “accomplishments”.

“Do you wish to see my accomplishments?” I ask Jeroen, before making a sandwich, or brushing my teeth, or walking like a ballerina to the refrigerator to refill my glass of Coke Zero.

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