Victorian orgasms and the soul of the world on a dog’s forehead

me: I have really been into properness lately.
As far as salutations go.
Lots of Mr. ____s and Ms. ____s and sirs and madams.
But in sort of a serious way.
Matthew: godspeed, good sir
me: “Certainly, Mr. Uribe.”
It’s like I’m on some weird Streetcar Named Desire kick or some shit.
Like I want to live in a tediously witty english novel about affairs and carriages.
Matthew: and gardens
me: Like I’d like to be wearing a bonnet.
Matthew: and wearing entirely too many layers.
me: Actually, I would rather like a bonnet.
Matthew: i’ll make you one.
me: Facebook comes in handy because without it, I feel like I’d never know anybody’s last names.
I am big on full names, especially with men, because when I am pretending to be aghast or if I am sincerely appalled, I pull out the old full name/abhorrent-mother trick
And he gets that sad “what? what’d I do?” look.
Matthew: shrugs his shoulders
me: Like a puppy that I just hit with a newspaper lightly.
Or at least mimed the motion of.
Matthew: dogs are adorable when you beat them.
me: Dogs have eyebrows.
I love dog eyebrows.
Matthew: they’re the most expensive
Matthew: they say once a dog loses his eyebrows, he loses his soul.
me: it’s true.
And not just his own, but his master’s.
The whole house’s.
The soul of the world is in a dog’s brow.
Matthew: a great gust of wind blows through the house and steals all their souls.
me: That happened to a lot of people in Victorian England.
People were rushed to the asylums because a wind blew all their souls away.
Lots of women were in hysterics. I think the Jews were blamed.
Matthew: they were only hysterical because they never had orgasms.
me: They were too polite to have orgasms.
I love how fragile those women were emotionally.
You didn’t have to do much to them.
You could utter a dirty word and they’d be kept in a room for month, all robbed of their wits
Matthew: i imagine victorian female orgasms sounding like a soprano singing.
me: You win.

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