Saturday, January 17, 2004

There is a small ongoing dispute between my girlfriend and me over who actually "wears the pants." In all truthfulness, it doesn't matter, but we bicker nonetheless.
In the past few days I've determined that I should be title-holder. You can help decide...
To me the person doing most of the decision-making has mostly both legs in the pants. But since we share the decision-making on a regular basis and seldom argue about things, I've been forced to use a second factor. (Although, I think she does this passive-aggressive thing that actually gives her some weird form of control over me...eh, whatever.)
The second deciding factor of who, indeed, wears the pants in our relationship is the "fear factor." Like, when there is some unwanted varmint scrurrying across the kitchen floor, who springs up and heads for the can of Raid and who hops onto the couch and screams, "I don't know where the can is, just kill it for fuck's sake!"
No wait, bad example. That's not gross, it's just plain scary. Let's talk gross.
Like for example, when after noticing the bathroom sink is draining at a snail's pace and Liquid Plumber was a waste of money, you volunteer to plunge a foot long stiff bristled brush into the four different quadrants of the drain, (go look at it, it has four) fishing out possibly ten years of hair (including someone else's) and fifteen pounds of pure sludge....well, that's me wearing the pants my friends. Me. Excuse me now while I go and VOMIT.

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