My beliefs lead me to believe ideally nothing’s challenging even if it’d develop my character; this development is relief for only a select few risible people, and despite this I’m actually wise; I believe everyone should marry just for love, but those who believe that, never. Adultery is how those married detangle their regrets if they want more of them. 

I want less (cf. my wisdom), so I won’t disclose one bit of the supine duress I begged from Sheldon Ratch at 374 Pine Street (off Gough) in San Francisco, May 26, night, nor what Sheldon called me for not gulping, then for gulping, what. 

I’ll disclose instead what my husband said that morning: We’ve lived where we live so long we can’t afford to move, not even somewhere tinier and closer to the ground, yet he still sometimes forgets which key opens our door versus the garbage chute. I’ll disclose that, when he wondered what kind of brilliant trash has anyone ever trashed that they’d lock away, I said: I trash, eventually all the thoughtful letters and cards I get, which always have more to do with what the writer thinks of themself than of the recipient if suicide is to remain rare. Then I thought to ask my husband: Has yet one more socioeconomically feasible real love withered, or are we always usually this tired?

It was when not gulping, then gulping—I’ve never been called anything nice for short—Sheldon called me, at length, “Good bitch,” that I felt this is the best of all possible worlds, and the tiniest reason I love Ed (my husband) is it is comfortable to be a little sad for decades, crying at one’s monkey horniness’s billion mirrors. I try to make sadness swell past itself and only past this swelling I can see. I write to make that breach adorable.