I guess you could say I'm grateful. I mean, it could be worse. I hope she still wants to be a stay-at-home mom, likes polka-dots and reading the bible. I hope her ambitions are the same as they were in tenth-grade gym class, cookie cutter. Clear like glass and the opposite of me. That's the point, isn't it? I'd bet she's a good driver and I'll bet she likes reality television, but that's just me. I can already see her carrying around diaper-bags, driving minivans, and wiping colored goo from ceiling fans and marble surfaces. Faces, little faces. But that's just me. I hope she still has bad skin and a telephone-operatorlike voice. I hope you know that the only reason why you're with her is because you know you'll never get hurt. And you know you'll never get distracted from what you really want. We all know what that is.
But I guess you could say I'm grateful.