Marriage

Every week, she toils away in front of the big white machine, unravelling yet another spunk encrusted sock.

Every night, she soaks her hands in the cancer enducing washing up waters, scooping the gunk from out of his discarded egg cup.

Every hour, she ponders why her life is more depressing than the Nazi holocaust and child rape combined.

Well then love,

Maybe you shouldn't have been such a fucking soft touch.