It’s January.

You declare my bikini line too hairy.

It’s February.

You think I could lose weight if I quit dairy.

It’s March.

You give me pointers for a hotter back arch.

It’s April.

You ruin my birthday party and swear I’m unstable.

It’s May.

You cry about how much I weigh.

It’s June.

You call me uncultured for sleeping through Dune.

It’s July.

You get caught leering at a pregnant girl then lie.

It’s August.

You brag at a party that the girl you took to prom in eighth grade was the hottest.

It’s September.

I bake you a birthday cake you won’t remember.

It’s October.

You note I’m better in bed when I’m not sober.

It’s November.

I throw a wine bottle; you rail against my temper.

It’s December.

You miss skinny me; she was limber.