A rejection,

January 25, 2009

(An AP engligh assignment, january 25th, 2009)

Your admiration is flattering; however, although your immersion towards me isn’t altogether undesired, I’m regretful to say it is not returned.  I have no intent of marriage. Now, or ever. Even if I thirsted to be binded legally with another human being for the rest of my life, could you honestly expect me to give my consent NOW? I’m only sixteen, for Christ sakes. How on earth could you have suspected that I would concur? Moreover, why on earth would you WANT me to?

I’m not exactly fit to be a wife. I’m rubbish at cooking, I procrastinate doing dishes until they’ve piled up past the water spout, and my idea of vacuuming is letting the dog eat crumbs off of the kitchen floor. I’ve never had a proper job, save that summer when I worked down in Florence at my neighbor’s store. I was nine, and made less than minimum wage. We packaged potpourri and re-arranged display tables. All day long.

I have no desire for children, either. Even adopting and insemination are completely out of the question. Caring for children is a full time job in and of itself, and frankly, I’m not quite up to it. Children cry and scream and run around wreaking havoc… I do the same. Therefore, I could never be expected to raise them properly. And what if they grew up to be rapists? Or, god forbid, homophobic republicans? How could I manage to love them then? How could I deal with the fact that I failed, with living proof running around?

I can’t stand the thought of childbirth. The thought of having something GROWING inside of me, taking my rations, having to insist that I’m “eating for two”… It’s repulsive. And then I have to push it OUT. I never want to put my body though something like that. And what if, afterwards, my metabolism dissipates? If I have to start watching what I eat, I would fall into a depression. I’m very proud of the fact that I could eat fourteen chicken wings and somehow LOSE two pounds. Not anymore, of course, due to my newfound vegetarianism… Which brings me to a point: could you learn how to cook for a vegetarian? Could you deal with not eating ribs or ground-cows or pig carcasses in front of me? Would you support my decision, or would you nag and bicker and complain about the lack of meat in the house? Would you go as far as to slip ground beef into my morning coffee? Not that I drink morning coffee, but in the future, I imagine myself to do a plethora of grown-up things.

I’m not one for intelligent conversations, either. In fact, spell-check has just informed me that I’ve spelled “intelligent” wrong. My opinions are hard-formed and blunt, with little acceptance for disarray. I’m insanely democratic, and my thoughts aren’t easily wavered. Even though I frequently compromise, I absolutely hate to concede to anyone. And, I’m sure, there is no way you would want to lose every argument we’d be bound to have along the path of life. Not to mention my obsession with puns and dumb jokes would probably drive you up the wall.

Now, it’s not just you that I’m adverse to. I’m against marriage, completely and totally, no matter the contender. When two people are in love, I don’t believe they should find a piece of paper signed by the law a necessity to proclaim their affection for each other. The government already controls the amount of money I have in the bank and what I can or can’t light on fire. To give them control of absolutely every aspect of life would drive me crazy; I’ve already mentioned my dislike for conceding. It applies with higher powers, as well. Speaking of higher powers, you’re probably thinking NOW that marriage doesn’t just bind two people in the eyes of the government, but in the eyes of God, too. But how do you know that I even believe in God? You’ve never even asked me. In fact, the only words from you I’ve ever received were the ones in the proposal letter. What, you don’t have the balls to propose to me in person? Where’s my diamond ring, dammit?

Never Yours,
Michelle

(A/N: I’ve just realized that I forgot to mention my lack of desire for romantic affiliation and my detest for subordinancy, such as the traditional housewife undergoes. Oh, well. Next time.)

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