I'm not good at multitasking (or fantasy RPG), so, as I warned you before, these posts are going to be few and far between*. My plate is kinda full, what with me having to work, finish Twilight Princess sometime this decade, read Duma Key, Lisey's Story, The Road, Watchmen, and -- my biannual ritual -- The Brothers Karamazov. Then there's Generation Kill and a bunch of other stuff**. It's a miracle that I even have time to look after the upkeep of this hallowed blog, when you think about it.
Now I know how Idealjetsam and Axl Rose must feel.
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Word to Naomi Campbell, it's never a good idea to marry someone strictly because she's sexy. And my ex-wife used to be sexy, I am willing to testify. I am also willing to take a chance on a crazy broad if she gives good head and is stacked like Jenga, but there's a thin line. When my ex got pregnant during our honeymoon (full disclosure: I nutted in her in a hot tub, then we ate sushi and returned to our hotel so I could watch the Angels win the World Series), it was both a blessing and a curse. Word to the yin and the yang, she got a lot less crazy and a lot fatter. I hear that's what happens when women get pregnant. (The latter, not the former.)
Yeah, she was starting to resemble Jabba the Hut, but gone were the days of monster freak-outs, so I was content. I can clearly recall one day in April 2003 when we went to Yeouido to see the cherry blossoms. Her belly was swollen like the running time of the last two Pirates of the Caribbean flicks, but she was calm. And -- besides the blowjobs -- that's the only good memory I have of our marriage; and I wish I could Eternal Sunshine it, because, nowadays, when I think back on that memory, I feel like a Nazi sympathizer.
You would, too.
After the 18th Letter's birth (which was more destiny than the fucked-up scheming of a pretty stupid woman***), it was Mad Max Part 3. So I was faced with not only a crazy woman, but a fat one at that. After she recovered from delivery, I wouldn't be the only one to feel her wrath. My daughter, not a year old, was, from my ex-wife's arms, dropped to the floor out of anger. (Thankfully, mercifully, only a bump and a bruise would briefly appear on the little girl's head and arm) Later, when my ex was pissed off because Rahne didn't pee when she was commanded to, she bit her arm.
Welcome. To. The. Club.
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Scars heal -- but vindictiveness, like cancer, is the gift that keeps on giving.
My ex-wife -- the whore -- gave birth to a baby daughter last month. And while I was filled with the utmost joy to discover that the father is a bald, 40-something American who looks like a pedophile, and that my ex weighs roughly 1021 kilograms, I'm mostly worried about that newborn.
But that's not my problem, is it?
* and dumb
** The Holy Bible, The Koran, The Torah, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, The Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Monster Manual, and, finally, The Unpublished Works of JD Salinger
*** As I would explain to Legs, she's not smart, but she's cunning. Anyone who blows up a regular balloon then inhales the air inside, expecting to speak in a high-pitched voice like there was helium in it, has probaly graduated from Dumbass U with honors.
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