Why When I Get Married My Wife Will Murder Me

I’m not a bad guy. There’s no reason why anyone would really want me dead (besides the obvious reasons). When I’m with a woman I treat her with respect and for the most part I’m a good guy. Sure I’ll sometimes be a dick, but we all are at times. I maintain good hygene (that looks like I spelled it wrong but I’m not sure and I’m too lazy to check). I enjoy cuddling and I also enjoy Steel Magnolias. So you’re probably wondering why anyone would want to murder such a stunning marginally attractive guy. Well, here’s why.

Marriage is something that takes time. It’s kind of a big committment (even if it seems like less of one as time goes by). I really think that my wife will get bored with me. At the tender age of 35 (I’m actually 22) I already show the signs of dementia. I already repeat stories and start stories and finish them sometimes hours later. Usually interrupting a current story I’m telling. I’m pretty sure that by the time I reach the age of 43 (meaning 27, the coolest age to die) I’ll be muttering mathematical equations that have no basis in any reality that humans know. I’ll also be doing my rambling while wearing a reusable diaper (by choice of course).

There’s also little things that I do that will most likely make someone, even someone who loves me, want to butcher me in my slumber. For instance, I crack my knuckles a lot. I’m not sure why and until science definately tells me that this will cause me to have mutant ferrett paws I am not giving it up. I also bite my finger nails for no other reason than I hate them. I’m not sure why I hate them, but I do. Sitting there on my finger tips acting like they’re owed something. Just because some creator (God, a scientist, nature, Dolly Parton) decided that they should be there. Well I say no. And I will use my teeth to show my nails that I mean business.  I also have a habit of making my room unbearably cold. This means my window is wide open during the dead of winter and I have a box fan in the window blowing in snow and wintry sadness into my dwelling of sadness. While this cold is coming in  I am huddled in a ball under my covers. I imagine that one day, if my wife doesn’t kill me, I will be found frozen in my bed in the position. And there will be a mystery and my body will be sent to museums and I’ll be labeled an idiot for the having the fucking fan on full blast in below fucking zero weather.

Now these are just a few things that would possibly cause someone to poison my kashi bar at breakfast. There are more and if you’ve spent any time with me you probably know them. Some I’m not even aware of. 

There is an easy way to avoid this whole thing. I could simply not get married. That’s a very possible possibility. Lonliness has its attraction. For instance, that whole diaper thing seems like it would turn less heads in my home if I’m by myself (I’ll only keep the windows open on school days and will thus never have to buy candy for tricker treaters). But let’s be reasonable, loneliness sucks. And after the romantic  alcoholic tendencies and pre-Hemmingway head trauma it stops being nice. I’m 22 and already tired of it.

But hey, maybe you reading this could be the one to make that all go away. Sure, you’ll probably end up murdering me, but we can have a beach wedding if you want. And I’ll get you a ring that will turn your other fingers green. With envy that is.

God I’m loveable.


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