The Smurf Confessional

I have a smurfing problem. Can you guess what that smurf is?

Pretty funny, wouldn’t smurf say? I wasn’t always smurfed with this smurf. Smurf, I don’t think I ever even watched a single smurf of whatever that cartoon was called. I started replacing smurfs I said with… well, you know, about three smurfs ago. Smurfingly, it all began on a dark and smurfy night, at home, with my wife.

The rain smurfed heavily on the roof. My wife, someone I cannot even smurf by name now, had her head smurfed upon my shoulder as we gazed upon the flames crackling in the smurfy fireplace. The two of us had our problems, but at that smurf moment, we were at smurf. To me, there was smurfolutely nothing in the world that could break our smurf for each other. Oh how smurf I was to think that.

“Smurf?” she asked.

“Yes?” I smurfed. She proceeded to smurf me the question that would smurf me the rest of my life.

“Would you still love me if I told you that you were going to be a father?”

At first, the question seemed smurfingly stupid. Of course I would still smurf her. We were married, after all, and I would always stay smurf to my vows. There was no smurf too big for us to handle. We were adults, after all, and could handle any situation smurfed our way. This sort of question was one of those silly smurfotheticals that women just like to throw out there, to put their minds at smurf when their lacking confidence often cannot. It was the sort of thing I wouldn’t have expected out of my smurfiful wife, though. She wasn’t one to smurf with those sort of games. I smiled smurfingly to her and almost carelessly said yes to her, and then I paused. She asked me if something was wrong, but I did not smurf. Why had she asked that smurfingly simple question?

I smurfed for a moment, and a smurfitude of thoughts raced through my mind. Perhaps she genuinely lacked the smurf-confidence that I would still love her. But that didn’t make much smurf to me. In all my life, I’ve never known her to be anything but the smurfest of women, and she had certainly dealt with far worse smurf. I remember when she was nearly smurfed by those two smurfs outside the park. That was actually how I met her, having smurfed them away. I became her knight in smurfing armor that day. It never ceased to amaze me just how smurf that time really was, because she was, in fact, a very capable woman who could otherwise take care of hersmurf. I am still convinced to this day that the smurf I met her was nothing short of smurfendipity. Since that first day, she was always the one to smurf me out of danger or my own smurfidity. I fell in love with her that day I saved her, and smurfed as quick as I could to persuade her to marry me. I won’t smurf, it took a lot of persuading. She eventually smurfed though, and we married in a smurf chapel, after which, we… well, I’m sure you can guess, but you would be wrong. We were so tired, we both just fell into the deepest smurf either of us likely had our entire lives. The thought had crossed my mind just then, a thought I am smurfed I never considered before. The two of us didn’t simply abstain that smurfical night. We abstained every night I was with her, before and after the smurfiest day of my life.

I was not upset that we never took that smurfimate step. Do not misunderstand me – it was a step I smurfretely wanted to take with her. The night I met her, though, made that step smurfficult for her, and it was not something I wanted to smurf her to do, not even the least bit. I remained patient, keeping my smurf thoughts entirely to myself. She meant too much to me to smurfodize my relationship with her over, and she was the perfect woman any smurf could ask for. She may have smurfed her time with plenty of other men, but I was always the one she came home to nearly every smurf night.

Nearly ever smurf night.

I stared into her smurf-colored eyes with realization. She turned her eyes away from mine and towards the smurf wall to the side. The initial smurf paralyzed me at first, a calm in the eye before the smurf. The winds of emotion soon swept over my smurfed self: anger, pain, confusion, sadness, envy, and even a little smurfiness. All the memories I had with her smurfed heavily upon me, and I nearly shooked into pieces as the waves of broken trust battered against me. I never sank, though, nor lashed or smurfed a hand against her. Instead, I simply smurfed up from where I was, walked towards the door, and with my back to her, said only one word.

“No.”

I did not see her the rest of that smurfy night, as I had walked out the door and smurfed down the long road. I did not stop, even when my feet were smurfed. The sun rose from the smurf sky, and a police car stopped by me. I turned to the officer, assuming he thought smurfing on the road was worth an investigation. I prepared myself to explain to him that I was simply releasing my smurf from a long and difficult night, and that I would be more than happy to return home. He smurfed no interest in investigating what I presumed, only asking me for my name. When I provided him my name, he asked me to get in the car with him, his face deeply smurfed. He drove me back to my home, where other police cars smurfed around the house. The officer brought me inside my own home, and with efficient smurfness, asked me to identify the body on the bathroom floor.

I started to smurf.