Dear Husband,

Look, I know my ignorance of world history and blatant inability to put the damn cheese grater back in its proper spot is annoying.

Likewise, listening to you drone on about train schedules and dealing with your impossibly stinky feet at the end of a workday is no treat either.

Sure, we've got our problems, but honestly, we've got to keep that shit under wraps.

At least, we would if we lived in the world of The Lobster (2015).

What's that you say? You haven't seen this little darling of a film yet? Well, snuggle up, my love, and allow me to elaborate.

In the realm of The Lobster, we see a strange and somewhat illogical world. It is of dystopian rule, and the only reason I know that is because if you find yourself without a mate, you are shipped to some creepy ass hotel where you have 45 days to find a new spouse.

If you fail to locate a boneable life partner, you are irrevocably transformed into an animal.

Yes. You read that right. An animal.

The good part? You get to choose what animal you can be transformed into. For obvious reasons, there are many dogs in this bizarre universe.

Our main character, David, played by the beautiful Colin Farrell, becomes single when his wife of 11 years and one month, leaves him for another dude.

That witch! And you thought my baby talking to the dog was bad? At least I'm not potentially turning you into a dog.

David is transported to the hotel, where he will have 45 days to secure a mate or else be turned into a lobster. He chooses a lobster due to its long lifespan and the fact that it stays fertile for its entire existence. Weird flex, guy.

Here is a list of things that happen in the hotel.

• Boner checks — a very attractive maid will tell you to pull down your pants (not the underwear) and then run her butt in a circular motion across your penile region. This is to monitor how long it takes you to get an erection. Neat-o! Except not neat-o at all because she will leave you hanging as soon as you reach optimal, er, hardness. No happy ending here, my friend.

• Loner hunts — You can extend your 45-day-to-find-a-mate deadline by tracking the runaway "loners" (single people) who have fled to the forest. Each loner you shoot with your tranquillizer gun equals one extra day to find your new spouse and finally get that ass.
• Distinguishing characteristics — I know what you're thinking. Well, I'll just shack up with someone and pretend to be in love with them. Think again. What is this, amateur hour? To be a correct match with someone, you must have similar distinguishing characteristics. For example, our hero David is near-sighted; thus, finding a near-sighted woman would mean a suitable match. The hotel managers monitor your every move (and I mean EVERY move) once you claim to be in love with another hotel patron so there isn't much chance of pulling the wool over anyone's eyes.

In this film, David and his friend Jon get up to some crafty stuff in hopes of avoiding turning into shark bait. I'm not going to say anymore because I sure as heck wouldn't want to spoil this superb movie.

We must all watch and learn so as not to make the same mistakes they do when eventually, this story becomes our world's reality.

Things You Cannot Do in the hotel.

• Masturbate.

Well shit. I'm out — turn me into a dang peacock or whatever right now.

The Lobster has everything: Romance, adventure, a lisping John C. Reilly, something that resembles a school dance but for middle-aged rejects and even celibates who live in the woods because they don't want to live under these insane mating rules.

Everything I tell you!

Most of all, The Lobster made me think. Not only because the entire cast was absolutely hilarious in the execution of this film's dry, dark humour, but more importantly, it made me realize how lucky I am to be married to you, my darling husband.

If it weren't for you putting up with my erratic mood swings and random public outbursts, I, too, might find myself in the pickle of having to pin down a mate within 45 days.

And what then?! It took me 21 years to land you, so I'd be totally screwed.

Who else, besides the prince who stands before me, would agree to shack up with this small but obnoxiously loud woman who has no money and isn't likely to start earning now in her old age.

Who else would agree to live till death do us part with a person who can't drive into a mechanic's shop for fear of falling in that floor-hole thingy? And, also, truly believes her car tires will explode when filling them up with a little air.

Who would want me, the person who writes publicly and proudly about shitting her own pants on multiple occasions?!

Come to think of it, that's probably what my distinguishing characteristic would be. The ability to be casually walking around in the Walmart and then, out of God knows where, have a 5-gallon pail worth of chocolate-brown misery awaiting the floodgates, ready to burst forth at any given minute.

So, what I'm trying to say, dearest husband, is that I thank you. I thank you for putting up with my bullshit (sometimes literally) because if it weren't for you, I'd be a lobster.

Lindsay Rae Brown writes about films sometimes, but usually only when they are weird ones that she can connect with on a soul-satisfying level. If you'd like to delve in deeper to the movies Lindsay considers life-changing, check this one out — because you just can't go wrong with a butthole for a mouth and a mouth for a butthole.