Stories should begin with a snappy opening line, but I’m breaking that tradition because this one is about my mercifully three-years-dead marriage and I can’t find a sufficiently apocalyptic metaphor to describe it. I could, for example, compare my unholy matrimonial union to the crash of the German Zeppelin Hindenburg in 1937 and get it right for the sense of horror and sheer destruction that accompanied that disaster. But for it to truly represent my marriage, the doomed zeppelin would have burn, crash and then float back up into the air and crash at least fifty more times. And even though it’s silly, it would come much closer to representing the panoply of crises my then-wife plunged me into (at sporadic moments) all throughout the decade in which we were manacled together, than just a single, paltry historical event.
Maybe the reason I can’t find a metaphor is that none of them are good enough. Why do I have to compare my marriage to some historical horror, when it was horrible enough on its own? Maybe the best way to convey the true scale of this personal disaster is to just tell it, flat out, warts and all.
This will be done in a series of vignettes and continue for as long as I remain disgruntled and bitter. There will be no set chronological order to the stories – they will bubble to the surface whenever the Bile rises in me. Readers who are feeling adventurous can check out the first in my marital horror series: Hungover On Judge Judy, in which I am humiliated in front of the entire world via Syndicated Television.
Our second tale begins several years earlier, when I came home one night after work to discover my kitchen table covered with…