Mr. President, I Don't Love You

Cool It, Or I'll Go Nuts

Rolling into town for the holidays, distant relatives start hounding me about tying the knot, popping out kids, and pitching in around the house.

The working stiff in me fires back, "Why the rush? Might as well have the Grim Reaper nag you too."

What's this? A wife's gotta be a saint, and a girl needs to be a docile workhorse.

I don't give a damn.

With a few sharp words, I zipped every gossip's lips and pushed them back by miles.

Dropping the pretense, I've been living on cloud nine.