My husband ditched work, packed his clothes, announced his hatred of everyone he knows, said he cares about no one but himself, and left for the weekend.
Yesterday I hid in the bathtub for hours and retreated into my imagination before he broke the lock. I composed a song in my head while he shouted endless blame. I dreamed I had a thick black beard. I held on to a bowl of warm water for comfort, pretending it was my womb and I was its protector. You would too, in my position.
Is it strange to almost hope another woman will take him away to lift my burden?
I would prefer a black dildo named Penelope Cruz.
Anyway, the penthouse is mine for the weekend, and I'd enjoy some lady love. Come on over. We'll make a drunken penis mural to increase resale value.
2:56 p.m. - 2009-07-10