Chapter 3 - Chapter 3: Death to Assholes

Yo, Husband!

Picture this: you wake up one mornin' and bam! There's a knife lodged right in your throat.

Alright hold up, 'cause technically you won't be awake to witness the show. It's kinda messed up, but there's something oddly satisfying about it. I blame it on your latest shenanigans, which, by the way, are as impressive as a headline shoutin', "Man and Wife Argue Like an Old Couple Two Minutes After Mending Fences in Front of Granny."

Why, oh why, won't you just swallow your pride and enjoy the sight of me havin' a good ol' rave? But nope, you had to dive headfirst into the argument, as predictable as the tides and just as stubborn.

Lemme tell ya, babe, as you wage war against yourself, it's my poor heart that gets caught in the crossfire. I signed up for a partnership, not to be a casualty in the skirmish of your self-inflicted battles.

I still remember the crap you said, "It's always the Lakeisha show, and the rest of us are just background characters in your little drama." Seriously, how the hell can you say that to a woman? Where's your sense of chivalry, Baby???

Those words cut deep, I'm tellin' ya. It's not something I'll be getting over anytime soon. Not in this lifetime or the next, that's for sure.

But you know what's messed up? There's a tiny grain of truth in what you said. Maybe if you brought it up at a different time, I wouldn't be so damn pissed about it. But nah, you had to throw it in the heat of the argument, and I can't help but hate you for it.

I see you tryin' to make it up to me. You've apologized a gazillion times already. But I'm gonna keep giving you the cold shoulder. Feel the wrath of a woman scorned.

Yeah, yeah, I get it. If I were born a man, I'd be a freakin' conqueror, a force to be reckoned with. Alas, fate decided to stick me in a woman's body, so I became a bitch.

Anyways, I'm spillin' my guts here, knowing damn well you ain't gonna read this letter. It's just gonna join the stack of a million other letters I've written for you, tucked away in that wooden box in my closet. I write 'em when I need to let it all out, even though you'll never lay eyes on 'em 'cause I ain't ever givin' 'em to you. I'd rather die first.

Oh, and by the way, you're still on punishment. So enjoy your long, sexless week while it lasts.

Your pissed-off wife,
Lakeisha.