Your narrative shifts from past to present to past again for no discernible reason.
You have managed to convince your husband you were not cheating on him by showing him a bathtub. You are also cheating on him. Everything works out.
You are a rooster that has a deeply complicated personal relationship with an emerald you found in the dirt.
You are, frankly, belaboring your point.
You’re having an affair and it’s wonderful.
You’re having an affair and it’s terrible.
You’re having an affair and your husband throws a dead bird at you, bloodying your breasts, to let you know that he knows you’re having an affair. This is the only time the two of you will ever discuss it.
You have never been in love, and you die on a mountain. The spot where your body fell will later become known for growing beneficial herbs, so it all evens out.
You are in South Wales against your will.
You can only fall in love at the command of a dying deer.
Queen Guinevere is acting totally non-canonically towards you.
You have been betrayed by a base chamberlain.
You do not understand how twins are made.
Something terrible happens at Pentecost.
Near you live four young barons, whose names cannot be told. They are all in love with you, but you cannot bring yourself to choose one. Then three of them die for love of you, and you are too sad to do anything but cry at the fourth. The two of you write a sad song together and never have sex.
You have prepared two bathtubs for your husband and your lover; one is filled with warm water, the other with boiling water. You forget which one is which.
Your married girlfriend gave you a dead bird as a token of her neverending love for you. You carry it with you always.
You only travel in ornately designed yet mysteriously-unstaffed ships, or by running through the woods in your wolf-form.
Your mysterious boyfriend proves to you that you can trust him by taking on your appearance and receiving Communion in front of you. This brings you no end of joy.
If anyone hates you, it’s only because you’re so beautiful. And you can’t help it if you’re beautiful.
Mallory is an Editor of The Toast.