Broken

“Baby, you might want to get yourself a new boyfriend.”

“What? Why?”

“I’m too broken.”

“Well, that’s certainly true.”

“Wh… you’re not supposed to agree with me!”

“Look, your feet are blistered from walking, you pulled a muscle in your shoulder from playing golf –”

“No, that was from putting my socks on.”

“Putting your socks on?”

“Yeah, remember, I told you about this.  I bent over to put my socks on, and hurt it. It was on the day I went golfing.”

“OK, so you pulled a muscle there, and now you’ve gone and taken a ride on a boat with clients –”

“I wasn’t. Not exactly.”

“Well you were at work on a boat anyway, and you neglected to slather yourself with sunscreen. Now, your pale, freckled face and arms and neck and legs are all splotchy and sunburned. Gah!”

“Mm-hm: I’m broken.”

“I refuse to feel bad for you! Especially for this! This one is your fault!”

“But I’m broken, into a million pieces.”

At this point in the anecdote, he pouts, slowly puffing out his bottom lip and looking up at me. I cannot resist his “I’m pathetic, look how pathetic I am” pout. I have tried, Internet, but I cannot.

“Awwwwwww…”

Here, he nods while pouting, which never fails to make me laugh.

“You may be broken, but I don’t want another boyfriend. I like you the best, broken or not broken. But you MUST wear sunscreen. You MUST.”

You wish you had that pout, Internet. It’s potent.