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Edited on Wed Nov-07-07 04:30 PM by Rabrrrrrr
never from the bottom or the top shelf, always a second shelf unopened bottle of Perrier, which he then opens with his teeth, leaving the side of his mouth bloody and cut up from the metal of the cap and the jagged, sharp glass that results from his angry gnawing and tossing about of the bottle in his rage.
As his blood oozes onto the floor, onto the expensive rug that I bought from the child-laborer who wove it in Turkey for a too-generous $25 while I gave his mother American-style Herpes and Chlamydia so she'd never be able to churn out another brownskin towel-headed parasite, I come back in from the end of the driveway where I left the trash for the beligerently ignorant trashman to pick up in the morning, the only constructive thing he does with his life other than produce massive piles of empty bottles of cheap mass-produced beer, bottles I would love to smash and break and force up his anal canal as punishment for never aspiring to be anything more than a commoner, a common day-laboring tool, a common day-laboring SOMA-addicted wife-beater-wearing weekend-football-watching at-child-screaming verminous worm, and I see the blood on the rug and the gash in the dog's mouth and I see the future, a future of my shopping-addicted screaming wife seeing the blood and throwing a tantrum, her Prada bags arcing up into the air, an arc that carves out the path of my life, the upward swing of my college years with a future full of hope and glory until at the top of the arc I get married to the bitch and all hopes and dreams get further and further away as I slowly decay toward the arcly terminus of nothingness, a beaten man, a man kept down by a controlling, vindictive wife. She'll demand in her hellishly cackling voice that I clean the mess up, that I be the one to get on his knees and scrub the blood out of the rug and take care of her awful, yippy ugly fucking dog, but I won't, choosing instead to pretend I hear nothing because I don't hear anything over 20KHz as she screams and tantrums and stomps her corn-riddled foot on the fake veneer of the faux-wood floor, a floor that represents not only our marriage but her soul and my hope, and she stomps and stamps and parades around and prances in her irrhythmic house-shaking rage, berating my manhood and my work ethic, her blood boiling over and her heart pounding ever harder and ever harder in her six-hundred pound wheezing body until she collapses in a chair, which collapsing has no effect on the battery of verbal abuse being slung from her overfed, disgusting craw, but I continue to ignore her, resolved to never bend again, to save what little bit of manhood I have left, while her loggorhea spills from her like last night's dinner of eight pounds of turkey meat and chocolate spilled through the canyon of her filthy ass-crack this morning, filling the house with malodorous evil and wall-shaking thunderous shit-on-water high-pressure-through-small-sphincter high-pitched soundscape of pure evil and stomach-churning disgust, forcing me to vomit, to relieve myself in the only way left to me, to try, through emptying my stomach, to rid my soul of the deadweight, the sinker, the cement shoes of her existence.
She keeps thinking that I will get up and clean the mess, but I ignore her, for not only do I despise her for making my life a living hell, for her termagant fishwife behavior that embarrasses me in front of my friends, causing them to decide years ago that they would never enter my house again so long as that emasculating, abusive lumbering blubberous mass of hate and bile remains my wife, but also I ignore her because I know that in her type-A impatient obsessive compulsive bitch behavior that has destroyed my soul, she'll eventually tire out and angrily mutter to her obnoxious soul-sucking mephitic self, "Oh, never mind you jackass, I'll get
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