“Did You Know It Is NOT Permitted To Marry Someone With A Brain Injury?” OR “True Injury To The Cerebellum And A Wife, Too”

     My wife has…

     My wife…

     My wife has a br-


     My wife

     My wife

     My WIFE! No!

     My wife lost…


     My beautiful, sensitive,
     unique, sexy, fun wife…
     looks into the glass…

Cat got the tongue?

    It is not behoovy to say
    some things…

    I can say:

    “My wife is borderline for
      type two diabetes.”

    Then add-

     “… a person who has
      diabetes AND a brain
      injury may seem
      cyclothymic or bipolar
      because they experience
      a small hell of not being
      able to “communado”
      their feelings.

              They will just go
      grocery shopping. Too
      much. I somehow am
      THERE! Wow! People were
      trying to get me to leave
      her. It seemed. She gets
      “defiant” over groceries.
      I got the cart out to load
      them.  She AUTOMATICLY
      took it 50 feet away from
      the car and groceries,
      stood and stopped.

            A man- not a
      “husband”- a
      metahusband (she met a
      BOYYY. He became a
      meta-man. Meta-guard.
      I have made men eat my
      fist for saying to her,
      “Want my sausage.” I
      worked those ass hatz
      OVER, BOYYY.

            No one fiddles with my
      STRADIVARIUS that was
      dropped. NO ONE calls her
      on any THING. Not EVER. I
      You can bank on that and
      get your butt kicked at
      Winn Dixie by Me Ixy.

            My “ixy” is my face. I
      do not HIT or twerk a tit
      with a fit-as-shit knuckle
      twist pinch. Male. Female.
      I WILL. Would that be a
      suprise, ladies, if you call
      my wife a HO… if I were to
      stand at hugging distance,
      locate your left nipple by
      pheremone detection,
      GNAB and vice grip it with
      my ninja right hand until
      you pee? It would be play
      tonic. Evil. I am a man.

             My wife’s loudest
       enemies have tits. In
       ninjistsu, anything goes.

             Don’t… flirt with me.

             Don’t… compete with
       her. I will tell her. She will
       Dixie-twist you herself.

             Like I said?

             Oh, no no no

             She is… my pupil.

             I married my student.

             She cannot control
       her nine-point hell drop
       hands of fate. Shit, I mean
       she wakes me up and I
       have an IV in my arm,
       duct taped to the ceiling.

             How in the hell does
       the water go up?

             It can’t.



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