My wife deserves someone better.
Someone who wakes at 6, runs 5 miles, starts breakfast, and then goes to work at General Motors or Bank of America all day where he pulls down 250K so that she can drive a Mercedes to her tennis lessons at the club. Someone safe. Someone stable.
But instead, she has me.
A risk-taking alcoholic daydreamer from questionable stock who doesn’t like to cook and who would rather sleep in a little than attack a day. An observer. A scribe.
So we wake up, kiss goodbye, and drive our old cars to work every day.