polyconfusion

If you told me I was meant to be a polygamist, what would I say?

I would say you were fucking crazy, that’s what I would say. I am not meant to share marriages or domestic responsibilities. Nor am I meant to have lots of children who will swing from my hip and cry all day as I shuffle around grocery stores in long, denim skirts (no slits, not even for proper movement). I don’t want to move to a compound where I can’t swig a bottle of Coca-Cola even if my throat is so parched that a tumbleweed comes bouncing out instead of words. Not that you were going to let me talk anyways, even with my tongues. Even if I went to the store and pointed to the Westmalle behind the cage, telling the clerk “yes, that’s the one,” you wouldn’t let me drink it. You’d rip it from my hands and yell, “devil, devil, devil!”
Always the devil: any man with long hair, the smokers out on the sidewalk, dogs with dark fur, the tumbleweed which rustles, bristles dryly because it is not rolling towards Joseph Smith.