I have heard it said that the hardest part of marriage is the first year. And having been there I know. But it was not so much the first year as the proceeding years. The honeymoon had to wear off at some point. Once the reality of owning a home, paying for college and the day-to-day grind of dealing with each others respective bullshit kicked in, it was time for it to hit the fan. The arguments became more intense and the frustration grew with the pain. The pain for me was the realization that this was not the woman that God had chosen to be my wife but the wife that I had chosen to be my god. I worshipped the ground that she walked on, but why? She was nothing special. She never did anything unique and she certainly never had an orgasm. What drove me to want to be with such a wretch? Boredom. The understanding that I had was this: by Redneck Law I had to be married to get out from under the oppression of a small religious community that was beyond fucking everything. That if I didn't marry before the age of 25 I was doomed to die a thousand horrible deaths.
No good. Besides, I was afraid of heights after a Bacardi 151 filled night that involved me, the bridge and almost loosing my grip from the side rail after having climbed over the wrong side of the guard rail to show of for the guys. Which is not as cool in retrospect because a) I was not drunk. I took one swig from the bottle and started acting like an asshole because I thought I was being funny. b) If I had actually fallen it would have been an embarrassing headline for the news of the times.
Putting a gun in my mouth lost it’s appeal after an orderly from the hospital came into the gas station that I worked at to buy cigarettes one night. He told me about some poor bastard that tried to off himself after he found out his wife was cheating on him with his sister. The poor fucker lived! NO shit! He blew the entirety of his head off except for the part in the back that kept him breathing and his heart rate regular. You would think that the amount of blood that he lost would have been enough to do him in. But since the poor fuck did not have any family immediately available, the doctors were forced by hospital policy to keep the breathing tube in until the family came to identify what was left of him.
Slitting my wrists was additionally out of the question because I could never remember which way to angle the blade. Was it up the road or across the street? I did not have the time or the patience to look it up at the library and "Emo" kids did not exist back then so I gave up. Also my grandfather never owned a hunting knife.
I did eventually try to drink myself to death. The difference being that I was not doing it out of boredom when I tried. I did it because I was a miserable fuck that lost everything. My wife, my house, my dog, my--Oh my God--this is the first time I have ever looked at my life and realized that I lived through five years of a country music song.
1. Jumping off of the I.B. Perrine Bridge.
2. Put the barrel end of a shotgun in my mouth and pull the trigger.
3. Slit my wrists with that hunting knife that grandpa left for me as per his "Last Will & Testament."
4. Slow drink myself to death like the rest of the inbred mongoloids that called this shit hole home.
No good. Besides, I was afraid of heights after a Bacardi 151 filled night that involved me, the bridge and almost loosing my grip from the side rail after having climbed over the wrong side of the guard rail to show of for the guys. Which is not as cool in retrospect because a) I was not drunk. I took one swig from the bottle and started acting like an asshole because I thought I was being funny. b) If I had actually fallen it would have been an embarrassing headline for the news of the times.
Young Man Falls to Death After Pretending He Was Drunk & Loosing Grip
Putting a gun in my mouth lost it’s appeal after an orderly from the hospital came into the gas station that I worked at to buy cigarettes one night. He told me about some poor bastard that tried to off himself after he found out his wife was cheating on him with his sister. The poor fucker lived! NO shit! He blew the entirety of his head off except for the part in the back that kept him breathing and his heart rate regular. You would think that the amount of blood that he lost would have been enough to do him in. But since the poor fuck did not have any family immediately available, the doctors were forced by hospital policy to keep the breathing tube in until the family came to identify what was left of him.
Slitting my wrists was additionally out of the question because I could never remember which way to angle the blade. Was it up the road or across the street? I did not have the time or the patience to look it up at the library and "Emo" kids did not exist back then so I gave up. Also my grandfather never owned a hunting knife.
I did eventually try to drink myself to death. The difference being that I was not doing it out of boredom when I tried. I did it because I was a miserable fuck that lost everything. My wife, my house, my dog, my--Oh my God--this is the first time I have ever looked at my life and realized that I lived through five years of a country music song.
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