Stupid in Love

Inkognito

inkognitowrites@yahoo.com

Marcus walked into the bathroom and immediately questioned every life choice that had brought him to this moment.

There stood his boyfriend, Tyler, wielding the vacuum cleaner hose while aggressively suctioning his wet hair.

“Tyler,” Marcus yelled over the deafening roar, “what in the name of basic evolutionary progress are you doing?”

Tyler spun around, his hair flaring out like a tumbleweed freshly baptized in high voltage. “Innovation, babe! Why waste time blow drying when you’ve got industrial-grade airflow?”

“Okay, Tyler,” Marcus said slowly. “I’m going to try explaining this one more time.”

Tyler nodded as he switched off the vacuum.

“Common sense,” Marcus continued, “is like gaydar. But for dumb ideas.”

“Oh! So it tingles?” Tyler asked with wide eyes.

Marcus blinked. “No, Ty. It doesn’t tingle.”

“Oh. Then how do you know it’s working?”

Marcus rubbed both temples like a man trying to coax a genie out of frustration.

Six months of dating Tyler had taught him that the human brain could apparently function on a single brain cell operating at 15% capacity, and somehow still manage to look devastatingly attractive while doing it.

“Let’s try this,” Marcus said, already feeling his will to live drain away. “Think of common sense as a tiny lawyer in your head who yells ‘Objection!’ before you do something catastrophically stupid.”

Tyler frowned. “But I don’t hear any lawyers. Just the voice that tells me Cool Ranch Doritos count as breakfast food.”

“That voice is not your friend, Tyler.”

“It hasn’t steered me wrong yet.”

“You once tried to charge your phone by putting it in the microwave because you said, and I quote, ‘It’s basically a charging station for food.’“

Tyler shrugged. “Innovation requires sacrifice.”

“Your phone literally exploded.”

“And we learned something valuable that day.”

Marcus slumped against the doorframe, wondering if this was how paleontologists felt when they realized they’d dedicated their lives to studying creatures too stupid to avoid extinction.

Meanwhile, Tyler was now examining his vacuum-styled hair in the mirror, turning his head side to side like he was admiring a piece of avant-garde sculpture. “This has real texture. It’s giving post-apocalyptic anime villain vibes.”

“You look like you were struck by lightning while fighting a hedge trimmer.”

“Still hot,” Tyler said, winking at his reflection.

Marcus sighed. “Okay, new rule. Hair care tools only. No power tools. No kitchen appliances. No ‘life hacks’ that involve extension cords and emergency services.”

“What about the leaf blower?”

“WHAT ABOUT THE LEAF BLOWER?”

“I’m just asking hypothetically!”

“The answer is no. It will always be no. If it has a motor and wasn’t specifically designed for hair, the answer is NO!”

Tyler pouted in that dangerous way that made Marcus want to kiss him and smother him with a pillow simultaneously.

“This is discrimination,” Tyler said, his bottom lip poking out. “Against the common-sense-disabled community.”

“There is no such community.”

“You don’t know that. Have you done the research?”

And just like that, Marcus found himself questioning his own common sense.

You see, Tyler’s true power wasn’t his ridiculously adorable smile.

Or his abs.

No, it was being so confidently wrong that he made other people question reality.

“Okay, how about this,” Marcus said, pivoting. “Let’s make a list. A Common Sense Cheat Sheet. Rules to keep you from, you know, accidentally launching yourself into orbit. A user manual for life.”

“Ooh! Like Ikea instructions for my brain!”

“Exactly.”

They retreated to the kitchen. Tyler opened a notebook and flipped to a blank page.

“Rule One,” Marcus dictated. “Hair dryers are for hair. Vacuum cleaners are for floors. The two do not mix. Ever.”

Tyler scribbled dutifully. “What about shop vacs?”

“Especially shop vacs.”

“Pressure washers?”

“Tyler, I swear to God—”

“I’m just being thorough!”

Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose so hard it probably left permanent dents. “Rule Two, if it plugs into the wall and wasn’t advertised specifically for personal grooming, keep it away from your face.”

“What about the coffee grinder? That’s basically a tiny blender, and blenders make smoothies, and smoothies are good for your skin—”

“NO. No coffee grinders on faces. No blenders on faces. No food processors, no garbage disposals, and absolutely no stand mixers!”

“You’re really limiting my creative potential here,” Tyler said, his shoulders sagging as he gazed mournfully at the banned appliances.

Marcus stared at the beautiful, ab-having, brain-cell-challenged man before him, and wondered if this was what Stockholm Syndrome felt like.

Because despite everything, despite the fact that Tyler once asked if a warm toilet seat could cause pregnancy, Marcus was utterly, hopelessly gone for him.

“Tyler,” Marcus said gently. “Promise me you’ll never change. But also promise me that if you’re not sure whether something’s a good idea, you’ll ask me first.”

Tyler considered this with the gravity of a philosopher contemplating the meaning of existence. “But what if you’re not here?”

“Then assume it’s a bad idea.”

“But what if it’s a really fun bad idea? Like, say, skateboarding down the stairs while holding a smoothie?”

Marcus could already see it: Tyler, front and center on I Survived: Dumbass Edition, proudly recounting the skateboard-smoothie-stair debacle. “That’s a hard no. Add it to the list. No smoothies. No skateboards. No gravity-based stunts inside the house.”

Tyler sighed. “Can I still make toast in the waffle iron?”

“… Why?”

“For the cute little squares. Obviously.”

Marcus’s eye twitched. “You know what? Fine. We’ll waffle some toast. But I’m supervising. And if you so much as look at the blender, I’m slapping a helmet on you and strapping you to the couch.”

“You’re the best boyfriend ever!” Tyler said, grinning.

And as Tyler happily skipped toward the waffle iron, Marcus realized that, against all odds and common sense, he wouldn’t trade this life of chaos for anything.

Even if it meant spending the rest of it as Tyler’s full-time safety officer.

“Rule Three,” Marcus called after him. “No improvised kitchen experiments while I’m not looking!”

“What if I film it for evidence?”

“TYLER.”

“Fine! You’re so controlling,” Tyler teased. “Waffle toast is gonna be revolutionary. You’ll see.”

He turned back to the counter and rifled through a drawer before freezing mid-motion. “Okay, just hear me out on this. What if we fuse the waffle iron and the curling iron? We could make, like, Waffle Curls. Breakfast and bounce.”

“That sentence just gave me a hernia.”

“Right? Because it’s genius.”

“It’s not. It’s a safety hazard. Like you.”

Tyler held up the waffle iron triumphantly. “Let the toasting commence!”

Marcus didn’t stop him.

At this point, there were only two outcomes.

Tyler would either burn down the kitchen, or invent a new brunch religion.

Both seemed equally likely.

Moments later, the waffle iron sizzled ominously.

“Okay,” Tyler said, peering in. “So, the toast is a little, um, fused.”

Marcus leaned over. “You welded bread.”

“It’s artisanal!”

“It looks like a crime scene at Panera.”

The toast clinked when Tyler poked it with a fork.

Marcus folded his arms. “Congratulations. You’ve invented edible drywall.”

Tyler beamed. “I shall call it… Toastruction.”

“Tyler, I love you. But if you trademark that, I’m putting ‘died doing dumb shit’ on your gravestone.”

“But what if I want to be cremated?”

“You want to be cremated?”

“Yeah. That way you could still keep me close,” Tyler explained, a big, goofy smile on his face. “Like in a cute little jar or something.”

And it was in that moment, Marcus knew.

“I’m doomed,” he said. “Utterly, beautifully, idiotically doomed.”