Random spit from the porch swing; let’s set the mood…
I’ve been divorced three times and married four. It’s nothing to brag about, with more stupidity on my part than either of the three other women combined. I let it all transpire until things got out of control. Eventuality? Divorce. Inevitability, whether we liked it or not.
I think I’ve finally figured it out, though. Let me tell you the trick to marriage.
Find a chick who’s not stupid. End of story. (sticks hand out for a paycheck).
I’m over-simplifying. What I mean is, society has normalized marriage and divorce as though it’s similar to friending and unfriending on social media. On the outside, funds notwithstanding, it truly is. On the inside, it’s near-suicidal anguish at 3am staring at ceilings no matter who was at fault or the outcome. It’s brutal, regardless the mask you both wear through each confrontation. You tend to swap on occasion.
Now, imagine what it does to your children, you selfish twats. Myself included. I’ve admitted every fault to my children regarding their upbringing since I’ve stopped drinking. If I’ve forgotten something, or if I’ve left someone out, they could call me at any moment and I would add it to the confession. That’s how humbled I am about the faults in my parenting. I knew dick, but no one does. I would invite all parents to do the same. It’s fucking liberating. Imagine how much brain you could wipe if you’d stop lying to your children regarding their childhood interpretations of “how shit went”.
One could possibly learn the in’s and out’s of a musical instrument at age fifty, hypothetically…
I truly would save all three of my ex-wives if they were on fire. In hindsight, their behaviors were mostly in defense to the person I used to be. Fuck that guy. Not saying they were innocent in everything they did, but I’ll be the first to admit that I would’ve divorced myself three times over.
Alcohol didn’t help things much. Sobriety’s been a strange drug. I truly knew no one and nothing without that filter. It’s like being reborn, but knowing you’ve reached your half-life. The overbearing burden of wasted years.
I jest often, sort of, but a lot of marital problems come from silly tradition and pointless daydreaming. Idle minds become idle hands in search of someone else’s moist spot.
Now, I normally don’t go into my personal life when it comes to my current marriage. I’m proud of this shit; she’s my precious. I’m the dragon, she’s the shiny stone I don’t remember reading about in The Hobbit…but I could be mistaken. I haven’t read the book in thirty-five years or so. Damn Peter Jackson and his trilogy deals. We didn’t need that much movie, but I digress.
I was also proud of my previous marriage at times, and bragged her up all over Myspace and Facebook for the entire decade we were a thing. All it did was roll out the red carpet for every other swinging dick to whirly-bird by while I was away on business. Whether it happened or not, they still whirly-birded. That’s a new verb; use it.
It was like a soap opera 24/7 with no subscription fee, except for the two of us and our permanent mental anguish. No matter how trivial, it’s called trauma. Deal with it or it will eat you to death.
To death.
Here are the Reverend’s new and improved marriage tricks to keep you both happy and sane. It all deals with sleeping arrangements:
(Pause) Think about it. Sleeping is when your soul is at its most vulnerable. We remove every safeguard knowing we can freely move about our mental cabin; truly rest. It’s impossible to do so if there’s any type of tension within those moments.
- Get two bedspreads or comforters. No one is waking up in the middle of the night to steal the covers back. You both have an individual blanket to pull what I refer to as “the burrito”. It makes for odd bedding presentation for those who don’t reside within your space, but what TF are strangers doing in your bedroom? That’s the sacred place where you fornicate, fart, and refresh; no strangers allowed. It’s the Elvis rule, and forever shall it stand.
- On television as a kid (mid to late seventies, so it was mostly reruns of semi-successful shows from the fifties), some married couples didn’t slept in the same bed. It was network rules for a bunch of church blah blah, but it was a damn good idea in disguise. I would even be as bold as to say that you both need your own bedroom, if available. If not, at least your own space. My wife is a professional business woman; she needs her sleep to succeed. Sometimes I snore; sometimes she snores. As artists, inspiration could strike at any moment. Allow each other to be spontaneous within your own personal interests. You can always visit each other’s room for the hibbety-dibbety, like back when your family would take your teenage girlfriend on vacation with you, or vice-versa. Ah, glory days. Nah, mom, we weren’t fakkin’ ’round.
In the end, the only one who’ll know the sleeping arrangements in your own space are the two of you. If you can manage to live your lives outside the home without gossip, there’s no need worrying about defending yourself to other people who won’t “get it”. God, politics, and orgasms all used to be “behind closed doors” or “bedroom” issues. Then, the lame people began shouting it to the heavens behind their social media keyboard shields to appear more interesting to all the shitheads who shunned them in high school. Next thing you know, MAGA was formed. The end.
In the southern United States, the marriage bed is sung of in hymns as this sacred place where Jesus gets to cop a spiritual feel. Whether you like it or not, humanity is constantly evolving. Most times, it’s in the wrong direction, but it’s evolution nonetheless. The hell with what your inbred brain has told you while at the mercy of seventies dirt-track-racing films and whiny “cheatin’ on a Saturday night” country music ballads.
You can still be incredibly in love without sleeping in the same bed or room every night. Sleep is more important to your health than traditions and mindless, spouse ownership laws preached/lied about in religious tomes planet-wide.
Those pesky aliens and their population-control literary endeavors. Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon. Fuck the status quo. Only YOU knows how to “YOU”. Fight for YOU.
Also, does anyone want a Kenmore Freezer? I was sitting in the porch swing chugging through my morning routine when I was approached from behind by a random black man. No, not in the ‘prison-esque penetration’ sort of way, but from behind our security gate.
“Hey,” he barked. “You wanna buy a Kenmore Freezer?”
No introduction, no sizing me up to see who or what kind of guy I was, and no lead-up back story to the subject in question. Just yes or no. Worst Lowe’s salesmen ever or best neighborhood thief; six in one, half a dozen in the other.
He was straight-forward, honest, and to the point, and I appreciate that from total strangers. How many times have I heard the ‘ran out of gas and my baby’s mama got locked up and I need to get to the VA hospital for emergency surgery’ cliche?
Unfortunately, I’m a Hotpoint kind of guy, and I already own one. Two would be nice, but how white did he think I was?
Presentation, ponderance, pinnacle.
The Gonzo Wolf 
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