8am Heart Attack

[Stereocrisis]

Scratching sleep crumbs out of my left eye with my right hand, and itching at the bug bites I received on the first day of summer, I awake two days later to feel myself sweaty and morose. Awakened by nightmares. Terrors that can not be explained or repeated in my waking hours. My mind would simply forget, and move on to other emotions as time neared closer to every next task at hand. Today was to be a busy day. Another place I did not want to go. Life is full of these little places. You are usually dragged into these homes for dinners and cookouts by someone who doesn't care that you would rather not go. When you have a family, it is a responsiblity. Not that she has any responsibility to me it would seem. Where do I get to drag her? Apart from these adventures to her events, in which people give me the hairy eyeball, I don't get to g anywhere. I am being yelled at. Constantly yelled at and mocked. Abused, and so I abuse her. And so I am abusive through language that I would not repeat around children. But then you have children, and parents rarely know better than to have screaming matches in front of the children. Especially when the woman is harboring some horrible spite filled venomous vendetta. Some anger that is caused by the recycled energy of pain and weakness. Pain, to make me hurt, and wish I could fix myself, because she points out my every flaw and instance of humanity that is well, rather ugly. Weakness, that I have, that is forced into reality by her evil tongue. I am telling you I am forced to commit acts of weakness. Her licking flames of fire at my back as I walk out that door again with that evil tempered tongue. I must escape the shouting. I can not escape the shouting. It is always there when I return. The weakness inside brings me to places I would rather not go. I would rather be comfortable in my bed with my wife and children, and not out planning adultery, looking at fine pussy in my path, because I don't get blowjobs at home. What would the kids think. Growing up without daddy, and listening to their mother trash talk me. It's bad enough she trash talks me when I'm around to defend myself. But it hurts so much more when I have to hear about it, or feel the effects of her big stupid mouth when I walk into a room filled with her family members. This, is my life. This, is my day. Another room to walk into and feel out of place and judged for things I am not entirely sure about. I am not sure of anything she says when I am not around. All I can go on is the bits and pieces I figure out through subtle eye gestures, movements in the faces of these people. The contempt, and the hate, and the thinking that they know me because they heard someting about me from someone else who is merely a fat spoiled baby, who doesn't get her way all the time, so she makes me out to be dirt.

I awake in our bed, wiping that crust out of my eye, scratching my bug bite itch. My lungs not feeling so well. My chest with that caving feeling. Wait, that is new. I have been having chest pains, but that is new. The caving, pinching, numb feeling. I...

At the funeral, she wept. I was a great man, and she was sorry. Truely sorry? Well, maybe. But that did not stop her from usin the death as a ladder. A new topic of sympathy. And all who attended had pity. More for her, than for the life gone forever. The life made so miserable in it's final years.