My Wife and I

My wife and I have had some turbulent times, to say the least. But I’d argue that the only way you can be sure a vessel is sea-worthy is to test it against some pretty high seas. And we’ve seen plenty of high seas. You could probably say it’s been exclusively high seas for the entirety of our marriage, to be honest.

While we were dating, we got along great. We spent countless hours watching foreign movies and eating Thai food. I worked part-time in a used bookstore to support us while she went through pet-grooming school, and when she graduated we were married in a beautiful service behind the bookstore next to the dumpsters. It was the happiest time in my life.

I’d say it was about a month after the wedding that things started to get rocky. She started drinking wine after dinner and I started to spend my weekends in crack dens. Obviously neither of us were angels.

She used to talk to her mother on the phone while I was trying to watch TV and that would infuriate me. She would always step outside to use the phone, but if I muted the TV and sat perfectly still, I could still sort of make out the sound of her voice through the wall. Obviously she could be very, very inconsiderate.

We started to nitpick each other as little things started to become more and more annoying: sometimes the coffee she’d make was too weak and sometimes the homeless people I’d kill and store in the crawlspace beneath our house would start to smell.

One thing that really bugged me was that she seemed to overreact when I accidentally gave her HIV after I’d apparently contracted it from sharing needles at the crack dens. I didn’t know I had it when I gave it to her, so I don’t really see why she got so upset. It’s called an honest mistake and everyone makes them.

It didn’t take long for me to develop a pretty serious addiction to crack cocaine and methamphetamines that led to some fairly strong feelings of paranoia. I was positive she was cheating on me, and I went so far as to call the television show Cheaters, who began having a detective follow her. When the detective told me he found no evidence of her being unfaithful, I put two and two together and realized that the Cheaters detective was fucking my wife and they were conspiring to keep it from me. My suspicions were confirmed by the expression on my wife’s face when I burst into our bedroom one night holding the still-beating heart of the detective in my hand. Her expression was one of shock and horror: exactly the kind of reaction you’d expect from someone who just had their secret affair exposed.

Things haven’t really been the same since I killed her lover with my bare hands, but then again, how could they be? She knows she fucked up. We both do.

With all that said, I never stopped loving her, and ultimately, I think that’s what matters most. And that’s why I think her request for a restraining order should be denied. Thanks for your time.