I’m just starting, as the song says.

But the fear is finishing–getting to the end and realizing it wasn’t that good.

But I’ll soon forget, this worry. I’ll have children. They’ll help me remember things. They’ll send our marriage to Mars.

But I have this sinking feeling that even on the Red Planet, my marriage will still feel like  a Sunday afternoon tinged with Monday. That feels like starting over.

You ‘re only job was to take out the trash. Instead you dug into the trash.
I know this, because I buried that shit deep.
You found it. You read. You’re dead.
No: don’t blame me for this. You’re up to your elbows in peanut sauce. You’ve smeared yourself and my reputation.
I cannot run for president. This is worse that skeletons in the closet. This is full-fleshed, full-frontal. Appendages in your face.
So now you know the truth.
Deal with it. Or just put it back and forget this whole diatribe.