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There’s a couple across the hall that’s been together for as long as I’ve known them. In situations like this, if one is not historically minded, it’s easy to overlook that the two were ever apart. But I fancy myself a social historian, and I spend much of the time otherwise unoccupied finding out what life used to be like.
Apparently, the male of this relationship used to be “fun.” That’s hard to believe. These days he spends most of his time walking to the shower, walking from the shower, and walking to and from the kitchen to fill cups of water and plates of bourgeois chicken. There’s two of everything, except for the towel he enshrouds himself in on those innumberable bathroom trips. Most of his life is spent caring for this girl. And for reasons I can’t explain without delving into the psychological mortar of my soul, it irritates me greatly.
No, no – I reckon I can explain part of the reason. Said girl is probably the most irksome, spoiled and unsatisfied female in the Central time zone. Everything she flaunts – social invitations, an uncommitted schedule, a slender figure unaffected by unchecked voracity – is something I lack. And her habits are abbhorant, including as they do weekly trips to a horse stable and whining, whining, whining about any semblance of work that veers into her Com Studies cacoon.
It’s gotten to the point where, especially in my post-courtship haze, this is unbearable. I am unable to think straight for rage when I hear the warm, wet murmurs emanating from the couples’ room. These noises intermingle with whines, always from the female (the male doesn’t talk) about changing the channel or eating something or the immediacy of “cumming.” Oh, it’s hellish.
And yet I can’t decide. Is it the most irritating aspect of my life? Or is my day to day existence so carefree that such a mundane annoyance can become a bane?

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