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10 January 2011

Another January

I can, in all heartfelt honesty, say... with a great deal of honesty and put-it-out-there frankness, I will never, ever... ever get married again. Ever. Ever.

It's not that my marriage is so bad. It is what it is... ups and downs, mortgages, kids, important stuff and stupid shit. I have moments where I say thank god I don't have to date again and I can fart freely in front of this person and they know me and married me anyway... then I have moments where I'm like, seriously? I seriously fucking did this? Fuck.

Today would be one such day.

I never planned on marriage... or kids... or this, how should I put it because I don't want to say "ordinary", because it's not... but perhaps, typical? Would typical fit here? Ten years ago, could I have asked myself hey, guess what, when you're on the cusp of turning 35 you're going to have two kids, two kids, a mortgage, no time to escape and sit in the dark to listen to music that you don't care if anyone else likes or read books for the sake of reading books or have baths when you want to or worry that two little people count on you to make sure they atleast get some semblance of Canada's food guide into them... I would have probably laughed and said I doubt it. And I did. I doubted it. I had never planned on it... never expected it... never thought about it.

And here I sit. In my king-sized bed (because us and two kids didn't really fit the queen, and for the random night they end up here, this is far more comfortable and if I'm to continue being really honest, it's kinda nice thinking and feeling, which is probably the biggest thing, that I'm all alone in bed and that I'm surrounded by a house of me, with my shit... my hopes, my fears, my messes... the curtains I want and the vacuuming not done and not a care about it. Oh to dream. But I'm not. I have an incredibly bitchy husband downstairs who's pissed at me because I needed to borrow money to help pay my student loan this month... who berates and gets snarky and I could see it if I spent the mortgage money on fabulous new boots... but I didn't. And I could see it if I demanded to stay at home and not work, but I didn't. So I guess I don't see it. But atleast I've progressed to a point in my life where I can honestly say you fucking moron get over yourself and put some looser underwear on.

On one hand it's been good for me, this whole process. I've grown into a version of me that I never expected to have practice with - one who says you know, I don't like that, so piss off. One who says yes and means it, or no and means that too. There's something about this life that I never expected that makes sense to me... while I have days where it seems I will never feel the warmth of the sun, there are moments that are only found in the clarity of a very cold day.

But I suppose this life is full of good and bad and it's quite honestly not just about me anymore. And to a great degree I accepted to that. But there are definitive moments where I couldn't help but think if only I had killed him and hid the body.

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