Hair of the Dog II


On Monday, I woke up in the smelly Airbnb apartment and decided I wasn't going to wait any longer.  I told her sisters and at 9:38 a.m., I called Eric the pinché motherfucker's wife Kandice at work, Banner Bank.  I told her about the affair. High level information, 3 years, Vegas trip in 2019, hotels every month, sometimes 2x a month. Venmoing money with lewd messages.  I apologized profusely for not telling her before this, but explained Jenny had threatened to go off chemo if she couldn't see Eric the pinché motherfucker.  Kandice repeatedly said it wasn't my fault. I was crying. She asked if Jenny had a birthday recently, I answered, yes, January 19, isn't his January 10? She said that explains the birthday card she had found.
The call lasted 10 minutes. No way to put that genie back in the bottle.  After 6 months, I couldn't help myself.  Jenny operates under the belief she should be able to do anything that makes her happy, even at my expense, because happiness will keep her alive.  Seriously. She routinely asks of me, "Can't you just pretend this isn't going on until I am better, and then deal with it?" The answer was, is, and will always be an emphatic no.  Jenny didn't love this:





I could unpack the text, but just know Jenny was home at this point, having been discharged Sunday afternoon.  I had taken Leiney with me to pick her up in the late afternoon. I had no need to tell her. Eric the pinché motherfucker had that well in hand.

 

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