My Pillow is Justine Jolie

I have named my new, perfect body pillow Angelina Jolie – it’s tall and skinny, firm but whimsical. Not only does she keep my hips perfectly aligned while I sleep, but she whispers me sweet nothings while I dream. She’s the ideal bedmate who never kicks and doesn’t care if I relegate her to the lumpy side of the bed. Or push her onto the floor. She never has breath that’s sickeningly sweet or like old coffee.

She rinses every single dish that she dirties and doesn’t tell a soul that I secretly think my new paternity pants are the most comfortable super slacks ever. They are better than most jeans, better than sweatpants and I look forward to the expansive elastic being just as helpful at Thanksgivings as for pregnancy. Angelina Jolie thinks that it is witty and charming that I have renamed my elastic pants and long, roomy shirts “paternity,” and she knows that I will still never say something as etymologically incorrect as “herstory.”

My pillow, Angelina Jolie loves that I am unemployed. She doesn’t mind using her ample fortune and bosom to support me whilst I flounder to find a job in a new city. It is hard to find a job as a goofy-looking queer, and it is hard to find employment as somebody with a pregnant belly that flashes “I’ll need a little bit of time off in six months” in neon and elastic. Now I have two mountains to climb. I have to find a job that’s queer-friendly and parent-friendly, both of which give me the appearance of non-professionalism. Never mind that I can spin words like candy, care for children with one arm tied behind my back and show up prepared and early for every meeting that has ever been scheduled; I’ve got short, blue hair and an expanding belly that can’t hide behind my impeccably ironed button-downs, mad skills with office catalogs and an uncanny ability to keep a meeting on track while still allowing for pleasant side notes.

What do you mean you can wear red, blue and pink hankies in your left pocket and be the most prolific worker in the office? I mean, Boss, that I finished everything on my list, half the stuff on their lists and then planned a Dudes With Beards Eating Cupcakes party in my free-time. I organized my sock and dildo drawer while my nicely constructed article on peace in the Middle East was spell-checking. I water the squash in my backyard and fisted your girlfriend before you were even awake this morning.

“Uhm, careful there,” Angelina whispers to me, as I update my resume by resting my laptop on her long, pillowy form, “These are not the best ways to prove responsibility, Mr. Handsome Dreamboat.” I grudgingly admit that what even my pillow knows is true. I’ll just have to count on highbrow ties, articulate interview answers, a strong handshake and exceptional references to help people overlook my appearance and condition. And, now that I think about it, Partner actually already has most of the astounding qualities that Angelina Jolie does, except for dish rinsing. Plus, he has a better butt and I really meant to name the pillow Justine Jolie, anyway. She has qualities that no other mere mortal can hope to keep up with.

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