VII.

Marge’s head was full of thoughts. They swirled and rattled, rattled and swirled. and she could never seem to settle on one. How will I ever choose a man, she debated and chewed on a frazzled strand of hair. her mother had told her, in the kitchen, when she was the ripest age of nine, that men have the obligation and privilege of choosing, and not the other way around. Marge winced.