Twentieth

I don’t run into her very often, but when I do I have this overwhelming urge to–I don’t know–choke the life out of her. I had to see her on all days, today.  On what would have been our twentieth wedding anniversary.  The beginning of my dead period, as I like to call it.

For the nine years that we were married, I’d listen to her bitch, and complain, and tell me what was wrong with me. Even after I tried like hell to make her happy.  Hell, I even let her talk me into a operation because she didn’t like the way I walked.  What the hell was I thinking?

I know it’s not really her fault that I can’t walk now, but what balance I did have disappeared after the surgery.  On the other hand if I wouldn’t had it done, I might not have gotten a scooter that I use like a car, and would’ve be stuck in the house with no transportation once I move to Florida.

It’s why I’m still trying to figure out if my marriage was a good thing, or a bad thing.

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