My husband has been on a business trip since Monday, and the adult in me would like to point out that I’ve been responsible. The other 90% of me needs that 10% to sit down and remember how often we listened to that Meghan Trainor song while eating candy.
I’ve cleaned, I’ve read a ton of Jane Austen, stared at old photos of my husband, and even written a little bit of husband fanfiction.
It’s gotten pitiful, but he threw me a bone. Of course, I made it weird. I always make it weird.
I’m starting to wonder why he likes coming home at all. I basically stalk, harass, and otherwise act like a fan. I don’t think it’s normal wife behavior to wish you could draw better so you could draw illustrations of your husband dressed up as different Jane Austen heroes, but there it is. That’s how I love. In the creepiest, grossest way possible. Apparently he likes it.
He’s probably just REALLY gratefully I’m not a talented artist of any kind because if I was, there would be many portraits of him in full regency swagger, complete with cravat and smolder.