What a bunch of horse shit about the Windsor men not marrying their true loves, but "only women who fit the mould."
Yo Haz, don´t you hate your father so much because ultimately he did exactly that? Marry his true love, who was not your mom? And now she´s the new Queen?
Did Fergie fit the mould, you plank? She was considered vulgar, loud, too fat, she constantly embarrassed the family and herself by putting her foot in her mouth for not thinking before speaking. Andrew married her because they were crazy as hell about each other, doing silly and rebellious shit, and had a wild sex life. Seems that was sufficient for you too, so how are you the one to talk.
Did your great grandfather not marry Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon for love, did he not steadfastly keep pursuing her although she had rejected him twice already? SHE was the one who did not marry her true secret love, but she came to love Bertie, the future King George VI.
And did your great uncle not do the exact same shit you did by marrying a facially very challenged, older, multiple divorced, money greedy American, for whom he even had to abdicate from the freaking throne, and then together they spent a lifetime of bitterness against the UK out in exile? Again, SHE was the one who didn´t marry her true love.
So instead of talking so much about the marriages of your male Windsor family members when you have no business doing so, how about asking yourself for once if YOU are your wife´s true love? Because she merely keeps calling you her "now husband". Not a label I would tolerate.
And in case you "internally blocked it out", she´s already had quite a few, supposedly "true forever loves" before you too. Married one of them, actually, just like she married you. But just 24 months later, when that true love was done and dusted, she had already found herself a fine replacement and was contemplating marriage with that one. You must remember him. She kept his bed warm inbetween sessions with you. But hey... April 2015 in Istanbul... or May 2016 in Toronto... or July 2016 in London... who´s counting the exact year or month of when one thing ended and the other began, right?
Because in the end, only one thing matters. That you are penguins who mate for life. You are palm trees whose roots intertwine. You are salt and pepper who always move together. So poetic, it makes my left eye tear up...
