I first bumped into her at a Peter Frampton show while I was making my way to my seat. She responded by stepping on my foot with her spiked heels while blowing smoke in my face. That really got my attention.

Our first date was the No Doubt concert. She was so excited about the show that she hauled off and slapped me across the face. That was right before she set my hair on fire with her Bic.

I wish you could have seen her when I showed her the front row tickets for Metallica. She grabbed my arm and twisted it around behind my back until my shoulder popped out of its socket. Then she took her corncob pipe and stuck it, well, you don’t wanna know. But I can tell you she was really happy. Shucks, you just never know what that little gal will do next.

Today I asked her if she wanted to get hitched. Boy, did she look happy. She was grinning ear-to-ear and then she grabbed my nose and twisted it until my nostrils were pointing at the ceiling.

I asked if she wanted to celebrate by seeing Red Hot Chili Peppers. She kicked me in the groin, karate chopped my neck and then yanked down my jeans and burned her initials into my backside with her cigar butt. “Just my way of saying, ‘I love you,'” she said.

I’m gonna love her forever and ever. I’ll take her to all the shows, like Dixie Chicks and Clint Black. I’ll buy her all the T-shirts, corn dogs and CDs her little heart desires. And I’ll try to look past all those little imperfections, but something really has me worried. I mean, I know no one is perfect, but…

I just don’t know if I can live with someone who smokes.