Stickman and Stickwoman - A Fiery Marriage
Date: Cira 2008
Blog 1
Stickman and his beautiful wife, Stickwoman, or as he referred to her, Stickwitch, enjoyed years of blissful matrimony but, eventually, like so many other marriages, the routine of their lives began to weary their patience for each other. The root cause of their discontent could be traced to their personal constitutions. According to reliable and respected sources independent of this author, Stickwoman relished the social life of dinner and cocktail parties that gathered the champions of gossip and small talk. She spoke and dressed the life of her admiration and when she was not in attendance she was preparing for it, rehearsing her lines or modeling before one of her many mirrors. On one occasion her devotion to herself seized the attention of Stickman who recalled the moment as her nirvana of narcissism, a thought the author wishes no part. While Stickman could understand and tolerate her self-love, he always remained contemptible of her langauge, typically confined to a few monosyllable sighs at best.
According to Stickman, the Stickwitch, as he referred to her, could be summed with a few words: platitude, being the first. She could comprehend no merit in any expression unless it circulated with common currency. Why she practiced so thoroughly on so few words confounded Stickman to exclaim, why not just use palm notes, one palm should suffice, leaving the other for touchy feely, as parlance goes. Stickwoman, as I refer to her, also dwelled on the obvious, which she never understood as such because if she knew it, others couldn't. Her frequent propensity to state the obvious so annoyed the Stickman that he developed a conditon known as eyerollitis, an aliment that should be obvious.
Every marginal relationship clings precariously upon a single event that results in a point of no return. For the Stick couple this event occurred one summer night of stifling humidity when Stickwoman, watching romance on the telly, complained bitterly of no such in her own life, years upon years she claimed. She recalled the times of novel excitement, longing for their return, not so much as before but something, anything but the humdrum of daily ennui with a man more resembling driftwood than the stick stud she once desired. Stickstud, as she once passionately thought of him, was indeed mostly adrift as she ranted. To him, the romance ended when her makeup became much too scarce or worst, when it became much too noticeable. When she harangued him now he no longer saw her in the way nature intended, holistically; instead he involuntarily sought out with cold scrutiny every detail of every adornment. That once beautiful face now more resemble something between a clown and a raccoon or more often, both; those sexy, ruby, luscious lips of old now reminded him of a gleefully similing Mister Ed, his horse lips to be precise. Lest the reader confuse the author with the unseemliness of Stickman, he wishes to be quite clear that these aforementioned thoughts are of those of his subject, not his own, of course.