Dropping bombs

I’m going to be frank. I have never experienced gas like this in my life. I used to call B Toots McGillicutty because he’ll sound the horn once or twice every morning like clockwork and likes to perform a little reverie in the evenings if we are watching TV. But I can’t talk anymore because what I produce these days is like napalm. It has brought B to his knees and also made him move more quickly than I have ever seen him move before. And beyond the fact that I feel like some kind of monster, I also feel I have lost a very important upper hand in the relationship; a moral high ground of sorts. Every time it happens (I am but a vessel, I can’t control it) I sense a little credibility falling away. If this continues I fear I will have lost all claim to the remote, any veto power on movies, any preference for grilled not fried, netflix choices, pizza toppings, justification for expensive toilet paper, who sets the alarm clock, closet space, and who is responsible for oil changes. This list may not seem coherent, but they are all things I have put my foot down about it the past. Their loss would be like a harmful radiation effect. For now I still have a tenuous stake in our major purchases, but if my feet start to stink then I might as well just go ahead and state my preference for the color of the brand new Charger that B will feel completely empowered to go out and purchase.