"I can't let John's negativity get to me," the diary read.
What do ya' mean, negative? I thought. I'm not negative. Sure, I complain a little because I'm not a rich man. I have a relative who gets paid thousands of dollars, a lower-middle-class jerk who all he does is count couches at a furniture outlet. The guy thinks Arnold Schwarzenegger is a good actor. That's how dumb he is, and he makes all this money.
I'm the only man in my family who could have taken the bad luck I've had without becoming a drug addict, or ending up in a lunatic asylum, and for this I'm called negative. I work endlessly without a vacation. I put up with a sassy kid and a wife who takes me for granted.
Me negative?
Grumbling, I moved past the diary and went outside to mow the lawn. The next day, Sunday, my wife left the house, and the diary was open again and there was a new passage.
"Why do I have to deal with such stress?" It read. "I can't stand this complaining. We've become more distanced than ever. Yet, John has such spirit and sensitivity........"
"Well, at least that last part is good," I told the diary.
"He needs to not feel the world is against him," the diary added.
The world's against me? I never said that. Remember when Cynthia (my wife's friend), that college, over-educated snob (she thinks she's better because she's a Hollywood script writer who knows the names of all the English kings). Remember when her father died in Hawaii, and I forgot, and she came back from the funeral and I innocently asked, thinking she had gone there on a vacation, "how was Hawaii?"
"Don't dare say that," Cynthia had bitterly snarled.
It was an innocent mistake. Cynthia had no right to get mad. But I took her guff. I wanted to throw her out a window, but I didn't. I just decided I'd never speak to her again.
Disgusted, I put the diary down and went and racked the dishes in the automatic dishwasher. Wiping my hands, I returned, picked up the diary, and flipped back a page.
"John doesn't listen. He interrupts and has to have the last word," it read.
"Bull!"
I took a pencil and made my own entry in the diary. I copied my wife's style of handwriting. "My husband is a handsome, muscular saint," I wrote. "I really should allow him some vices."
© Copyright 2004 by SammonSays.com
More Post
New Medicines Available To Treat Rare Diseases
Music now we learn also on-line
Give A Heart Necklace This Holiday
Cure your Baldness & Alopecia the Natural Way (Chinese Herbs)
Teach Courses Online
Facts About Spirulina- Worlds Most Powerful Food
School Fundraiser Niche - Valentines Day
Hair Loss: Cosmetic Solutions For Good Cover Up
Dating Blindly
Sun Tanning Protects The Skin
Thay Call It "Dog Breath" For A Reason
Using Magnets To Fight The Pain
A Note From Saint Valentine - A First Person Tale Of This Wonderful Day
Spitting Up – And Other Joys Of Motherhood
Las Vegas: How to Ensure Your Vacation is Full of Adventure and Kicks
Is Self-Esteem Contrary to Christianity
What Educational Toys Do Kids Actually Enjoy Playing With?
MLM Success | Relationships in Two Minutes Flat
Are vent free gas fireplaces safe?
Domestic Violence Dr Jekyll or Mr Hyde