How to Ruin Your Relationship

Hello instructable users! Are you in a stable relationship and are looking to royally fuck it up? Are you tired of people giving you “life hacks,” when they themselves can’t seem to put a pair of pants on alone?

Then look no further. Thanks to my asshole husband (soon to be ex-husband), I have a step by step process of how to ruin your relationship together. I’ll show you how somebody can go from an ambitious and upstart “man-of-the-century” to fat, alcoholic, degenerate who can’t pay his phone bell. For the sake of protecting his name for the next round of our lawyers and child custody, I will call my husband “Cliff.” Why? Because that’s what he fucking fell off of over the last six months.

My name is Sarah. This is my life instructable.

Materials:

A once-ambitious man/woman (for this scenario, we will use “Cliff”)
Real life people problems
A child
A high-powered job or profession
Home mortgage
Copious quantities of alcohol
A sizeable severance package

Step 1: Meet a Significant Other

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The first step is the most important of all! It might seem obvious, but I want to be as thorough as possible for this instructable. I think those are the ones that get the most votes, after all.

Anyways, it’s important for this process to find somebody and fall in love with them. You don’t necessarily have to get married to them, but it surely helps. That is what Cliff and I did a mere eight months after meeting each other in a coffee shop. More on that later. I thought we married for love. I never thought it was for “convenience.” That should have been my first warning sign. Unfortunately, that is an entirely different instructable.

As a side note to this first step, I want to tell you: Don’t have a favorite song. Just don’t. Don’t listen to it. Don’t dance to one at your wedding ceremony. It’s the first thing you’ll do as a married couple, but the last thing you will want to remember. Once it’s over, you will end up hearing it in your car in the days and months ahead (see the final step if you want to spoil it.) For your sake and your sanity, don’t have a favorite song. Our song was “God Only Knows” by The Beach Boys. Fucker.

Step 2: Make Lots of Money to Complicate Things

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Okay. So you have a new man or lady in your life. Things are going great. Every kiss was new. Every fuck was a new feeling and sensation you knew couldn’t get any better. You were right.

The honeymoon period has a way of putting a haze over your eyes to the realities of the situation at hand. Everything was going smoothly in our new marriage. At the time, Cliff was a hedge fund manager at a big fancy company in Washington, D.C. I was just a barista who handed him his venti latte every morning at 7:30am sharp. Every morning. Remember that.

Once we got married, I had the option to “take a break” and finish school. His salary allowed us to find a new place in the city. It was my dream home. I was literally living the dream. For a failed grad student working at a Starbucks, I felt like I was married to Prince Charming. He swept me off my feet in that first year. I had time to pursue cooking, go to school, and be there when Cliff got home from work. Part of me felt like a 1950s housewife, which I secretly resented.

Step 3: Have a Baby

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If you really want to screw things up, why not add a baby to the mix?

As a result of the fairytale, I got lazy about birth control and got pregnant when I didn’t want to. I was too busy being a homemaker and student, I guess. We were married and very happy on the surface, so we decided to stick with it. We converted my “study” to a nursery. Thankfully, the home we bought was big enough to incorporate our baby with room to spare.

To make a long step short, we had the baby. We will call her Jane for the sake of her privacy. It was only after the baby that everything really happened. Everything fell to shit. That’s when the drinking started. That was the beginning of the end. The fairy tale was over before it even began.

To be continued…

(all images courtesy wikimedia commons)

Part of the Seven Deadly Sins Short Story Series. What is it?

This is the story of Ashley and Peter.
It is written in the style of First Person Narrative.

PART I

I hate myself the most after he forces me to do anal. I don’t even like it. In fact, I hate it. I’m not sure why he convinces me to do it all the time. Sure, I muster up the strength to tell him no sometimes. But that word is Peter’s trigger. When he hears “no” everything in my life goes to shit.

I’m not sure if he ever learned to fully process its meaning growing up. Who knows, even though his mother is a conniving bitch that probably would have left him to die on a cliff from exposure like Oedipus. Maybe he didn’t hear it enough. I doubt it. Either way, there are issues there. Deep seeded issues. And every goddamn one of them comes spilling out like a geyser when its late at night and all he can do is think about a different way he can hurt me.

He doesn’t hurt me physically. No physical scars exist. Not really. Unless it’s sex, or whatever he wants to call it. It’s getting to the point that I begin to sweat profusely every time he unzips his pants. He could be changing out of his work clothes, and it still feels like the nightmare is beginning. Sometimes it’s better to just give in and let him fuck me in his own special way – no words or kissing. All I can hear is the pain throbbing inside my skull and the dull THWAP of skin connecting. I am a helpless doll on the corner of our bed. He is the powerful figure with doll eyes. Thrusting and pain. The last thing I usually hear before he walks out of the room to go downstairs is his zipper. What a tragic way to bookend each time, right?

I don’t know if it’s rape. I’m too afraid to ask. I’ll never tell my friends. I never see them anymore, anyway. Peter doesn’t allow it. No social media, either. I have a tumblr page, but I am afraid he will find it and pick it apart or tell me I am a whore. Then he will have sex in his anger and wrath. It’s the worst ten minutes of my life, replayed daily. I wish it was at least agreed upon. But the sex never feels consensual, although it did when we first met a year and a half ago. It was great. But that changed quickly. I really miss those days. Sometimes I wish it was rape, then I could at least identify it in my mind.

Tonight, the last thing I hear is him zipping up his pants. The deed is done. Congratulations, Peter: I hope you enjoyed it. There’s blood on the toilet paper already. Here’s hoping it doesn’t get worse. He motions to me to look at the clock. It’s 8:15pm. He says four words to me: clean up the kitchen. I tell him “ok.” He can now retreat to his study to masturbate or watch TV or do whatever the fuck he does. It never involves me. My job is to clean and cry or scream into my pillow until I give up for the evening. Then he comes in and feels like the man. How truly special he is.

I tell him that I love him. He doesn’t respond. He looks into my eyes with a doll’s stare for several seconds before leaving. Those words used to mean a lot. It’s the last thing he hears coming from upstairs for the rest of the evening. That is unless our daughter has been crying in the next room over.

Return to WRATH.
Return to Seven Deadly Sins.

Tag: seven deadly sins

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