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i promised to myself, months ago, that i wasn't going to continue writing sob stories about what married life has become. frankly, it probably bored me more to write it than for someone else to read. especially when nothing is done to correct the situation. oh, i got some good advice along the way. i decided to keep on the course, make the best of her situation: menopause, therapy, refusing to make friends, obsessing over her daughter, self-deprecation, depression. her despite of my friends, mother, radio show, music, art. possessing deformed cheating glands, it wasn't going to be much of a question about that... even if the sex machine has been turned off for (almost) a year. i could never juggle more than one relationship at a time, anyway. though that has turned out to be more sacrifice than i first considered. so, instead... i go on an occasional one-evening bender, once every four months or so. meaning, i go to a friend's home (no one seems to be or feel welcome at my house, any longer) and tilt my elbow, shoot the shit, a little somethin'-somethin' occasionally... and come home. and am the nice co-operative one, afterwards. So, i admit it. i fucked up. inconsiderate in not being more specific about when i'd be back. i was not enthusiastic about another night silent on the couch, or else bitched at about how our medical coverage at my job had gotten too confusing. or, for that matter, rehashing the monster of her daughter's divorce/custody thing. nope, i was interested in getting a good buzz. not mindfuck... that episode in the Spring cured me of that. i was feeling good at SirBill and the Contessa's home when he answered the phone, around nine. he spoke sparingly. hung up. i knew who it was. when i asked for the gory details, he told me not to worry about it. yeah, right. time to face the music. i knew i had something coming. i just wasn't expecting the shrillness, the threat of police, the ultimatums, the accusations... all lasting from ten until four in the morning. at which point, i was told that i'd better "find a sub to take over the show, and get this straightened out... if you want to stay married." so, i grabbed the sleeping bag (i was told i couldn't sleep on the couch, since she had to use the livingroom in the morning), and stretched out on the computer room hardwood floor. i woke, sourly, to aches and a tongue the size of a boa constrictor. fired up coffee, and attempted to find a substitute. to no avail... half of the staff were gone for the weekend. a radio show with zero preparation. and zero inspiration. "forbidden", yet. yeah, well... the show must go on. i returned home. like nothing had happened. again. she'd said all she had to say, the night before, i was told. bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. bullshit. a week later, it sours me to write and read this. just as it did previously. what the fuck, there's no one to tell this to, anyway. just SIgmund MacIntosh. this, too, will not be repeated. but my heart is empty. and my feet are itchy. |
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