John's words were wavy and ghostlike but just real enough to pull me from my afternoon nap. "I need you Tristy! I need you Tristy!"

When I was fully awake he stared at me and said it again - only now it wasn't quite what I had first thought.  John wasn't saying "I need YOU Tristy!" rather, "I need A Tristy!" I looked at him puzzled, half smiling.
"I need a Tristy! I really fucking need a Tristy!" he strained, now with a slight grimace of pain across his face.
"Well, I'm here,' I said "There's only one of me!"
"NO! I NEED A TRISTY! Quick, before I Spencer my pants!"
It took a while but finally I got it. Once again the man I love had found a way to show his utter contempt for my very existence. In each  dirty sentence my name found itself standing in for the word "shit":

"I'm fucking busting for a Tristy!"or "That fucking dog Tristy'd up the yard!" even "Tristy Spencer happens!"

I just sat there dejected as John rattled off as many Tristy-filled sentences as he could think of. Each time he came up with a new one he'd laugh and repeat it over and over, asking if I'd heard it.

Oh, let him laugh, I thought... let him have his moment. I just hope he reserves a few laughs for when the real Tristy Spencer is running down his legs and filling up his shoes - I imagine that'd be pretty funny too.

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