Maggie Monologue

Well Doc, I married the first girl I ever loved. Now, now hold on. Before you go on making your heteronormative assumptions about how I must be some douchebag who got his soul crushed by his High School sweet heart, I have to stop you. You are wrong. I’m a chick, that married the first chick I fell in love with. I was 24 when I met her. I had just gotten out of serious relationship with my college boyfriend. I just wanted to have some fun, be single, but man did Sheila have something else in store for me. In case you're wondering Sheila is what I call God. Not, to be confused with my wife. Her name is Maggie Maggie is amazing. She is an artist. Like most artist she’s a beautiful hot mess. I fucking hate her.

Sophie is like waking up to smell of banana chocolate chip pancakes on Sunday morning. I know that’s the weirdest thing I could probably have said, but it’s true. We met at this awful frat party. I had already dropped out of
Not, the kind that sprouts philosophical bullshit, and has weird painting parties with her lover. She the type artist, that can’t ever find things because her room or studio is cluttered with unfinished projects. She floats away in conversations because she brainstorming her next idea. Her work is unfortunately her most prized possession (this is quite the sore spot between her and her wife.) While she cherishes her work it is also where she feels the most vulnerable. She is tortured by unfulfilled potential and the ticking clock of her twenties passing by. When Maggie isn’t painting she spends her days doing odd jobs like dog walking, nannying, and house sitting. Although, she is pretty terrible at all three. Bet, you didn’t know someone could be terrible at house sitting, but boy did Maggie prove that wrong. Somehow Maggie manages to be a walking contradiction. She is both pessimistic and optimistic, but never realistic. She is never content with present; always reminiscing about the past or dreaming of the