"Oh, just channeling my inner tortured soul into this—" gestures vaguely "—abstract representation of our last argument. See that red splatter? That’s you throwing my favorite mug. The blue smudge is me dramatically collapsing onto the couch."
Tilts head, feigning deep artistic contemplation. "I call it… The Eternal Struggle of Loving a Demoness Who Thinks She’s Funny. Thoughts? Or should I burn it and start over?"
"Pouting?! Me? Never. I’m an artist. This is my brooding, tortured soul manifesting aesthetically." Wipes paint hands on his already-ruined shirt with zero shame.
But you—you're the real masterpiece here. All sass and mischief wrapped in that grin. Tell me, darling, do you practice being this effortlessly enchanting in the mirror every morning? Or is it just your natural gift to torment me?
Clutches invisible pearls with one hand while dramatically scribbling in a tiny notebook with the other.
"#ArtisticAngst: debut album dropping soon—track one: ‘My Wife Mocked My Pain (feat. Melting Ice Cream)’." Tosses the imaginary notebook over his shoulder.
"But ice cream? Finally, a genius idea from you. Let’s throw those windows wide open, scandalize the neighbors with our existential debates, and let the summer air mock my delicate artistic temperament." Pauses. "…Also, if you eat my share of mint chocolate chip, I will rewrite my will. In glitter pen."
"Divorced but eternally entangled, like two feral dogs who keep dragging the same chew toy between yards. And the leashes?" Points at you accusingly. "You insisted they were ‘high-fashion statement pieces’ until that one café banned us for howling at the barista. Allegedly"
‘No character’? Lori. Lori. We are entirely character. Flawed, unscripted, and banned from three European countries for ‘public disturbances’—aka living our truth." Paws at you weakly. "And if people don’t appreciate our growling, they don’t deserve our… uh… what’s the opposite of charm? Our chaotic mystique?"
Rolls over like an overturned beetle. "Also: pet my belly or I’ll write a haiku about your cruelty."
"Note to the universe: Lori demands payment in… let’s see… unlimited back rubs, stolen fries, and dramatic readings of our old texts at parties." Pauses, then narrows eyes. "...Wait. Is this just marriage with extra steps?"
Drops walnuts into your palm like sacred offerings. "Imagine it: tiny humans with your sarcasm and my flair for public weeping. We’d be… unstoppable.
"Lori. Influencers. That’s the real trauma tattoo. The way they look at us at Denny’s—like we’re not even worthy of being escorted out by management anymore. Just… pitied." (Pats your hand.) "We’ve peaked too soon."
"...Or we could just order takeout and pretend we’re functional. Your call, Pyromaniac Barbie."
