Our first kiss was in a graveyard.
That should have been a sign.
But as Jack Lennon would say, “Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see.”
This may be my last blog entry.
My heart belongs to ibuprofen.
I have developed what appears to be a serious heart condition in the course of my unfulfilling marriage. Unfortunately, a strong sense of duty, masochism, self-loathing, or stupidity has prevented me from seeking a divorce, even though my wife and I seem to hate each other more than we know how to love.
Yesterday she chewed me out while she was cooking us lunch. Interspersed between her toxic bullets of vitriol were some good points.
“I never should have started with you!” she yelled after screaming at the unresponsive induction stove her mother bought for us half a year ago. She was in the process of heating up a frying pan of chopped onions and another full of raw bacon.
“You spent all the money,” she continued, somehow overlooking her own moronically generous gift of ten thousand dollars to her church. (The funny thing is, she told me the other day she wants to switch to a different one, because the service at “our” church isn’t long enough–one measly hour instead of the three hours she seeks to devote to self-flagellating worship of her bifurcated god who’s both an all-forgiving imaginary friend and implacable fascist dictator, sort of like her.)
I suggested she try unplugging the stove and plugging it back in, saying that sometimes works (not that I’ve tried it with the stove, but it’s certainly effective with other contraptions, including computers). She opened the cabinet underneath, reached past all the plastic containers stacked up in there, and pulled the plug. Then she lost it all over again when she couldn’t plug it back in.
One reason she was pissed off was because she said she had to leave soon to teach a class, and because she claimed I never helped her prepare meals (although I often wash the dishes). The reason the money issue came up was she was mad about having such a narrow kitchen in which to operate.
I didn’t think it would be constructive to point out that she had ruined my life and was probably the main reason I face an early grave, considering how riled she already was. I’ve kicked myself so many times for getting involved with her in the first place that I require knee surgery.
And now I have to get ready for work, so I can’t even finish writing this entry, which sucks as I was just starting to get into it.
Anyway, I’ll try to postpone the heart attack long enough to finish writing the cockamamie thing, and if I croak in the meantime, it’s been nice knowing you.