Dear (so-called) friends and family on my various social media networks,
I wasn’t going to write this letter, but after some consideration felt that it had to be said. After all, here I am, trying my best to get through these challenging times, and what am I faced with? Criticism and mocking.
The idea was simple: raise funds to transform our garage into a self-contained, locking, soundproof room. Complete with fine linens, a sex swing, and one of those heart-shaped rotating beds. Also, a mini-fridge to be filled with beverages for when, ultimately, thirst would overcome us.
$10,000 seemed like a reasonable price to build such a room, all things considered. So I did what I’ve seen so many people do in this age of social media: I started a fundraiser for my cause.
As soon as the campaign went live, I assumed that the donations would start rolling in. After all, the Coronavirus has hit everyone. With so many people falling ill and losing their jobs, it’s no secret that this crisis has touched many lives across our great nation. However, most affected are clearly the parents.
Our afternoon delights have been ripped away from us without warning. Who would have thought that having the children home all day would put such a crimp in our bedroom activities? Feeling like a midday quickie? Boom! The eleven-year-old is at the bedroom door asking for lunch.
These children are relentless in their need to know what I am doing every minute of the day and have therefore stumbled in on some rather heinous acrobatic work from yours truly. Do you know how it feels to have your six-year-old daughter walk in on you doing the Butter Churner with her father while he plays the clarinet? (Don’t tell me you don’t have kinks.)
I assumed that with a small donation of $200 per person (or whatever you could spare, but $200 would be optimal), I could begin operations in reinventing our garage into a sexy space for my husband and me to enjoy. Benefiting so many people: Me (because I fucking need this); my husband, whose balls are turning the color of Rainbow Dash’s hide; and even our children who would no longer risk the indignity of hearing their parents make the double-backed beast. If you don’t believe in my cause, at least think of the children.
A few of you had the audacity to laugh-react to my campaign, but I haven’t seen one cent roll in since sharing it a week ago. I am appalled by the inconsiderateness. Here I am donating to your dying dogs and neighbors with incurable diseases. I went as far as to donate $75 to you, Grace Billings, when your house burnt down last month. But as soon as I ask for a small contribution of $200, you laugh-react in my face. Yes, Grace, I saw that you were one of the laugh-reacting perpetrators.
Well, as luck would have it, I don’t need any of you sonsofbitches. I’ve established a beneficiary through email correspondence. Her name is HotBoOoOoOTy69, and she emailed me by complete accident, but we got to talking, and I mentioned my dilemma to her. She said that if I make an investment in her Instagram modeling company, she would be able to triple my share within a month, therefore getting me the funds I need to build my garage sex room. I have e-transferred her the money and am awaiting the legal contracts to sign.
So I guess it goes to show that life just works out when you really need it to. And no, in case you were wondering, you will not be permitted to use our sex room once it’s finished. You should have thought of that before you laugh-reacted.
About the Author
Lindsay Brown is a mother of two, wife of one and loves to write funny material about family life. Her most recent work can be found on Slackjaw, The Maine Review and Thought Catalog. Find more of Lindsay’s work at https://medium.com/@authorlindsaybrown