You have no idea how demeaning this is for both of us.
How, after 12 years, our companionship is now winnowed
down to one ill-advised portrait for all the World Wide Web to ridicule.
We have both seen better days.
Your eyes bear the toll of three failed marriages, two home foreclosures,
and countless hours of screeching at The Real Housewives of Orange County.
My girth betrays Fancy Feasts, Friskies, and full days sunning myself
beneath the bay window of our townhouse apartment.
“C’mon, Winston!” you bellowed, gathering me in your arms to pose before the camera carefully placed atop the liquor cabinet. “Don’t you want to get famous?”
I didn’t, but now I am, in a perverse kind of way.
At least smile, dammit, if you’re going to expose us like this.