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Fuck me

There are some days I just don’t want to come home. Being scolded, chided, ripped, and criticized just are not my ideas of a good time. But with wife and kids, it’s going to happen. And though I do my best to keep out of everyone’s way, to do what everyone wants me to do, they just can’t help themselves.

Jesus, I wish for once I could come home to a simple shack. Bed, writing table, oil lamp, and two nails in the wall by the door, one for my jacket and shirt, the other for my pants. Because this modern existence with all it’s “necessities,” its jangle of material needs and the accompanying expectations has really got me down.

And maybe that’s what bothers me the most. These fucking people have no idea they live in opulence. Like fucking kings and queens, better even than the kings and queens of old. All they can bitch about is how much they don’t have, or how this is broken, or how I never do this or that for them.

A shack. One, goddamn, little, airy, no-account fucking shack.

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