Fourteen Years

Aside from the births of Barack Obama, Jeff Gordon, and Bill Herrin, August 4th is truly a special day to me because on that date in 1996, a certain girl from the big town of New London, Missouri entered into a legally binding contract to love me forever--for better or for worse. Poor Bethany. Was she duped? Hoodwinked? Deceived? Bribed? Blackmailed? Bamboozled? I choose to invoke my Fifth Amendment Right to not answer these questions.

One does have to question Bethany's judgment though. Why would an apparently smart and obviously attractive young woman agree to marry me? She's tall, fit, and sexy while I am none of those things. Why would she settle for me, when she clearly could have done much, much better? Was she dropped on her head as a child? Her standard answer to the question of 'why?' is, "I was drunk." She lies.

For better or for worse. Lately, she would probably label life with me with the latter. My astute wife has pointed out that since I've become a "real writer" I've begun acting like one. She's noticed that I'm moody and prone to angry outbursts of late. I reply with, "Yes, but what's new about that?" Nevertheless, she is stuck with me, so she makes the best of it I guess.

To my wife, I would like to publicly say thank you for putting up with me for fourteen years. I don't deserve someone as good as you. That isn't to say I don't deserve to be loved--just perhaps loved by a crack whore or a woman with three teeth and an affinity for chaw. Yet here you are, still with me after having had ample time to come to your senses--or sober-up. If your mom did drop you on your head, then remind me to thank her for that.

I love you, Mrs. Naughton, more than a moody writer could ever put into words. Happy anniversary.