I hate that bastard.
I mean I really hate that motherfucker.
Every time I look at him or hear him breathe through his open mouth while he eats his eggs, or forgets to unplug the iron or pick up the dry cleaning, I just want to sail across the kitchen table and stab him in the neck with a steak knife and release some of this abhorrence thumping in my veins at every minute of every day.
But, alas, I cannot- and trust me; I’ve considered it more times than I can count over the years.
If not for the obvious moral reasons, for the fact that I really don’t think my pale skin would look at all appealing in prison jumpsuit orange.
And, I'd definitely be a bottom. A weak bottom.
I glanced at the purple beaded gown mocking me as it hung lifelessly from the door of our closet. Why did I have to go to this damn thing anyway?
All work and one too many charity functions standing next to this idiot made me a homicidal girl. READ MORE
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