Honey, can we talk?
I know it's been a few months since we last fought about this, but I'm very concerned that you are not totally engaged with my ongoing enlightenment efforts. No, I don't want to see you cry like when I composted all of our house's meat-derived, gluten-tolerant, and yes, toxin-laden food. 'Food.' If it may even be called anything more than a chemical soup of addiction and self-loathing.
Don't start with that look. You know the Buddha said to stay away from negative people (he did, shut it) and you're being awfully milquetoast right now. And I realize we've been going through a low-chi phase since you found out I was communing with Yogi Sarah. Yes, I know. Well, Milwaukee is a very centered place. Spiritually.
What? Please. I wasn't sleeping with the yogi; our spirits were merely joined as one for a moment both brief and eternal. Oh, no, honey, you know your body is a precious gift from the earth and I love every curve of it like I love the earth herself but--
No, don't be sad, please. I've already done my cucumber flaxseed rinse today, and I don't think I could handle your sadness. Like, physically. C'mon, think rainbow safe thoughts, like Norah Jones! Mmm, remember those crispy tempeh steaks we had on our anniversary? That was good, right?
It'll be fine, honey. Come here, cozy up under this tiny afghan our Peruvian llama farmers sent us for our generous donation. Better? Perfect.
Now get on Facebook and help me troll the last vegan market in town that still sells genetically modified beets.