All of us have a moral code by which we live. Uncompromisable, inalienable tenets to which we hold as we navigate this murky existence. From many years of marriage, I’ve compiled the following rules by which Diane governs the trainwreck of her life our lives.
There are questions in life that beg the inevitable question - WHY? Namely, WHY IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, WHY did Diane spend a thousand fucking dollars of my soul capital on a stroller?
Does said stroller have it’s own IP Address? Gold plated axles? A printer hidden underneath that fucking prints money every time you pass a Gucci store?
A classy friend of mine always had this saying that he repeated ad nauseum: ”For XYZ dollars, it had better give head”. Lo and behold, I inspected this miraculous thousand dollar feat of modern engineering, thumbed through the owners manual, and am very disappointed to report that it will under no circumstances fellate a human being. No, it was this monstrosity of a stroller with a bazillion dollars worth of attachments. Think RV that you push around.
Egregious amounts of food go uneaten in this house, subsequently ending up in the trash. If it’s not cake or ice cream, chances are that someone will painstakingly unwrap the packaging, take one fucking bite out of it, and shove it into the back of the fridge never to be seen again until the smell causes me to have to dig it out and put it in the trash. It’s not always Diane, mind you. The kids have taken to mommy’s habits with reckless abandon.
I’m not a rich man. If I were, I wouldn’t be here crafting the woes of my life into small palatable bites of misery candy for your soul. Speaking of which, feel free to spread the word and hook your friends on the addictiveness of my sob stories.
As I was saying, wealthy I am not and as a consequence I really need to eat in. Diane’s utter incompetence precludes her from operating a refrigerator, much less getting a grip of the arcane art of putting three items in a sauce pan over fire and fixing a fucking bite to eat. That means yours truly gets to slave over a hot stove after a trying day at the salt mines in a futile effort to get the kitchen to yield tasty victuals fit for consumption.
My mother is one of the best people on this green earth. She was adopted and led a hard life growing up on a farm. She woke up at 5am to haul firewood and feed nine - count-em - nine siblings. Got by with a fifth grade education, but always managed to take care of what she needed to do.
Mom had warned me about Diane. She had a way of reading people that I couldn’t appreciate at the time. She sat me down one day years ago and said very plainly, “Son, this woman is fucked in the head”. I chose not to listen, and that was that.
