He’s a motherfucker.

Always has been, always will be.

For the millionth time this year, I’m wiping sticky yellow stains off the toilet seat because the man I stupidly said ‘ I do ‘ to, can’t be bothered to respect any one of my million requests to lift the damn thing.

A microcosm for the entirety of our marriage, really.

Had I been raised better, I might’ve skyrocketed my standards before meeting him and picked someone I didn’t have to mother—someone I could actually be a wife to. A provider type, one of the men who values the presence and gentle efforts of his woman, and insists on delivering solutions rather than headaches and heartaches like he stands to earn interest off of them.

But alas, my husband, the motherfucker, is not among those men. Nope.

08. 27. 34. 04. 19. 10.

Those were the winning LuckyBall numbers I found last week, a little white square at the back of his cluttered junk drawer. Who would’ve ever imagined?

More likely to be struck dead instantaneously by a little green alien sitting atop a smoking meteorite screaming, “you’re a shit husband!” in some unknown Martian language, and yet this asshole defies the odds with a $5 bill.

Now he’s a certified millionaire, even after taxes.

Oh, and it gets better.

I’m still working. Ten years fighting to keep a clean house and cover the bills for man who duped me when I was still a freshman in college. “Labors of love, Nancy!”

Only they’re not labors of love anymore.

They’re labors of hate.

Well… labors for my lawyers really, because the success of my divorce depends on every detail I can find. And I can’t blow my cover, not until I find the account he’s been hiding from me. He needs to think every thing at home is just “bright orange, Georgia peachy!”

But when I do find it…

God I want to see the twisted look on his face.

I’m thinking I’ll cut this black hair short and bleach it blonde, step into some red bottoms.

I bet he won’t recognize me.

I bet he’ll try to brag to me about the wealth he’s “earned” before he realizes I’m about to bleed it by half as soon as the process server hands him that manilla envelope.

“Are you the motherfucker married to Nancy Harrison? You’ve been served.”