Diary Of A Mad Sad Man

December 31, 2017, 11:13 p.m.

Dear diary,

In 47 minutes it'll be 2018. Happy New Year? Not for me.

I'll be ringing it in alone, pining away like a lovesick dork while my wife and her boyfriend celebrate at the hottest nightclub in town.

Next year I'll have her to myself. I'll poison his ass. Maybe pay a hitman. He'll be gone and she'll be mine.

Bullshit. I won't do it. I don't have the balls.

She'll never be mine.

Look at me, scribbling down my thoughts like a teenage girl. This whole diary thing feels weird. Yeah, I've got a shitty life; why write about it? Do I really want to record for posterity how stupid I am for agreeing to this ridiculous marriage arrangement?

I'm embarrassed at what I've become. I try not to think about it. Maybe that's the problem: I should think about it. I need to figure out who I am and where I want to be. Hopefully starting this journal will be my first step toward piecing myself back together.

So then ... who am I? It's a tough question.

I imagine most people see me as Lou Smoski, a chubby stockbroker with a bald spot, a goofy sense of humor and a knack for predicting tech trends.

The mask disappears when I get home. Behind drawn curtains I'm a scared, mistreated little rodent.

It's a shameful existence. I do it for her. So I say.

If Sigmund Freud came back to life he'd probably tell me I have a Jesus complex for allowing Amy and Conner to treat me like they do. Could be. Why else would I endure this abuse?

Am I nailing myself to the cross? Making myself a martyr? Do I have mommy-daddy issues? Why am I so crazy about this girl who uses me up like dollar store toilet paper?

There are no answers. Through the haze of confusion and pain, the only certainty is my burning love for her. It doesn't make sense but it feels so right.

If only she would stop breaking my heart. I know she can't help it but it's destroying me.

Amy has a divine soul but it's buried under thick layers of scar tissue. She had a brutal childhood — her stepdad molested her and her mom was too stoned to give a shit. Amy ran away from home at age 16 and started stripping for a sleazy club owner who didn't ask for ID. More than a decade later she's still trying to get her head on straight.

My wife is in a dark place, doing drugs, shacking up with a loudmouthed loser and wallowing in depravity. I know I can help her change when she's ready but she's still got a long way to go.

I keep thinking she'll eventually see the light, and when she does I'll be there for her. My perseverance will pay off. She'll come to realize Conner's a bum and I'm the one for her.

Until then, I'll cry myself to sleep every night.

It's getting to me. I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I'm trying to hold it together because I know if I fall apart and become a liability she'll toss me out on my ass. And as bad as things are, I can't bear the thought of living without my Amy ... never being in the same room with her ... never smelling her strawberry shampoo ...

So for the first time in my life I'm keeping a diary. My New Year's resolution is to log at least one entry every day in 2018. Maybe it'll help. Who knows? I've got to try something.

Since I'm writing down what's on my mind, I guess I should start with the love of my life, my reason for being, the former Miss Amy Todd, known professionally as Tiffany Wild before she retired three years ago and became my wife.

Yeah, right, my wife. What a joke. Who am I kidding? I'm head-over-heels for a low-class, self-centered ex-stripper who married me for my money.

She's a greedy cunt.

She walks all over me.

I can't live without her.

Some people are hooked on heroin. Some crave cocaine. Amy's my drug. I know she's bad for me but I just can't quit her.

I dream up scenarios where my devotion wins her over, she finally dumps Conner and we skip off into the sunset together. In moments of clarity I realize this fantasy is just an excuse to keep feeding my unhealthy addiction while pretending my intentions are noble.

There's nothing honorable about letting Amy and Conner exploit and humiliate me. I'm in a dysfunctional, abusive relationship and I'm too much of a weakling to leave.

I vacillate between feeling sorry for myself and seething with resentment. I plot how to murder the son of a bitch who replaced me in my wife's bed. I've killed him in so many ways: Strangled him, beat him with a ball bat, used a chainsaw. Then I wake up and remember what a coward I am.

Sigh. It's 11:21. I guess I could go upstairs and watch one of the countdown-to-midnight extravaganzas on TV, but I don't need a reminder that everyone other than poor little me is out having a good time.

Amy and Conner are hanging with the hip crowd at the Rapture New Year's Eve Blowout. Amy's probably nestled in her lover's arms, sipping $500-a-bottle champagne. I'm the furthest thing from her mind right now.

Why should she bother thinking about me? I'm just her husband. I'm just the guy paying for everything ... the guy who rescued her from that degrading strip club and handed her a life of luxury.

I love her unconditionally; why should she honor me by loving me back?

She's got my money. She's got Conner.

I get shit.

I look around my cramped living quarters and my pathetic lot sinks in. Why do I live like this? It's my house and I'm sleeping in the damn basement. I trudge off to work every morning and bust my ass while they lounge around all day getting high, fucking, and making messes for me to clean. I pay the tab for them to smoke weed, snort coke, dress sharp and go to trendy clubs like Rapture. Conner's lame rock band has all the latest top-of-the-line equipment, courtesy of my Visa Platinum card.

They never say thanks. No matter what I do for them it's not enough.

I try telling myself it's worth it, because at least Amy is still in my life. The alternative is being banished from her world forever. That almost happened two years ago on February 3 2015, the day she told me she was dumping me for Conner.

We'd only been married a year, but she had fucked him under my nose from almost the beginning. "Girls' night out" often lasted until past 4 a.m. Sometimes she'd be gone overnight, never bothering to call. Or I'd get home from work and find strange cigarette butts in the ashtrays, and the bed would look like the Bears and Packers had scrimmaged on it.

She was daring me to say something, testing how far she could push me. I just kept my mouth shut, emptied the ashtrays and changed the sheets while she flashed that little smirk of hers.

My submission emboldened her. One evening as she was putting on makeup, preparing for yet another "girls' night out," she told me a man would be stopping by.

"Conner's the designated driver. I plan on doing some serious drinking, so he's taking me to the bar and driving me home." She bared her teeth. "He's a real good driver."

Her brow arched as she twirled her eyeliner pencil, watching my reaction through the mirror.

I blinked. "Um, okay, if you're gonna drink it's probably best to have someone to drive." Head hung low, I retreated to the bedroom.

He came in a few minutes later. I strained my ears, catching snippets of deep chuckles and girlish giggles. Then the front door slammed shut and they were gone.

I lay down and sobbed. My pillow was soaked.

Conner dropped her off around 3:30 a.m. They sat in the driveway seemingly for hours before Amy finally staggered inside. As she approached the bedroom I closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep. She fell onto the mattress smelling of cologne, sweat and cum. Within seconds she was snoring. I stared at the back of her head until I drifted off.

The next morning I made Sunday breakfast as usual.

"Did you have fun at the bar with ... with Stephanie and Tammy?" I forced a smile and served up a plate of bacon, eggs and hash browns.

She chuckled. "Oh yeah, it was slamming." She picked up a piece of bacon and nibbled. "At the club, I mean. You know: Slamming." She shimmied in her seat. "Um, um, um!"

I nodded and shuffled off to the kitchen. I was bending over backward to ignore her little digs, petrified she'd leave me if I confronted her.

Amy's "designated driver" regularly stopped by the house after that. I tried to avoid him, usually cowering in the bedroom when the dreaded knock came. We briefly crossed paths a few times, but never spoke.

The first time we met, he sized me up with a sneer as I nodded at him and ducked into the bedroom. I couldn't have said anything if I'd wanted to because my throat muscles were paralyzed. While he and my wife visited in the living room I sat on the bed, head in hands, knowing I was no match for the tall, broad-shouldered Adonis. I heard flirtatious peals of laughter and cursed myself for not being strong enough to go out there and reclaim my wife.

Looking back, I realize there was nothing to reclaim. She never belonged to me in the first place.

Early in our relationship, sex with Amy consisted of two-and-a-half minutes of me humping her while she lay there with a bored look on her face. She once returned a text message while I was inside her; when I frowned she giggled and told me it was important. I'd seen how sensual she could be during her dance routines at Trixxster's Lounge but she never shared that part of herself with me.

She started her affair with Conner a few months after the wedding and intimacy between us became virtually nonexistent. Every blue moon if she was feeling horny she'd let me go down on her. Afterward I'd pull my pud while staring longingly at her pussy. She'd either watch TV or doze off while I gave myself my lonely little orgasm.

Intercourse was out of the question. The few times I tried to mount her she crinkled her nose and pushed me away. So I stopped trying.

Since I wasn't satisfying Amy sexually, I tripped all over myself catering to her, desperate to prove I could still be useful. I had always handled most of the chores but I really put my back into it, working to keep the house spotless. I gave her foot massages nearly every night after preparing and serving dinner. I sucked up to her more than usual, grinning and nodding at everything she said.

It wasn't enough. One evening when I got home from work she announced she was leaving me for Conner. I wailed. I begged. I dropped to my knees, hands clasped in front of me.

"Please don't do this. I'll do anything. I don't care if you're seeing him. You can keep seeing him; all I want is for you to be happy. Amy, I'm begging you ... please — please."

Her lip curled. "You're a fucking loser, I swear to God." With a flip of her hair, she stomped out the house.

I threw up on the carpet.

She was gone three days without picking up the phone or returning my texts. They were the worst three days of my life. I told my boss I had the flu and stayed home, bawling nonstop. I was sure she'd left me for good. Stupid, dangerous thoughts infiltrated my headspace — like maybe I didn't want to live without her.

On the fourth day, a glorious Sunday afternoon, a miracle occurred: Amy swooped through the front door, plopped onto the couch and planted a booted foot on the coffee table.

My mouth went dry. I licked my lips. "Oh my God, I-I'm so glad you're home. I was so worried, and I was —"

Amy showed me her palm. "Stop talking. You need to shut the fuck up and listen."

She slipped a pack of Newport from her purse and shook one loose.

"First of all, I'm in love with Conner, straight up. We been in love for a while now. But you knew that already. Didn't you?"

A squeaky syllable caught in my throat.

She scoffed. "You got no balls, Lou. I need a man with balls. Conner's got balls. He don't beg like you do — he knows what he wants and he takes it. That's what a man does, in case you were wondering. I love him, and he loves me, and we're tired of not being together. So he's moving in here."

I lowered my eyes. She lit her cigarette and continued:

"But Conner and me talked about it, and there might be a way to make this work."

My head popped up. Make it work? She wants to make it work? Can it be?

She took a drag, puckered her lips and blew a shot of smoke at me.

"When you was down on your knees the other day you said you'd do anything if I stuck around. Anything to make me happy; I could keep on seeing Conner. You remember that?" She flicked ashes on the carpet.

Tears filled my eyes. "Of course I remember it, and I meant it, too. Please, Amy, I'll do anything ... I don't care ... please ... all I want is for you to be happy. Please ... just give me a chance ... I'll never let you down, please, I'll show you —"

"Jesus Christ, would you stop fucking whining? I told you to shut the fuck up and listen, but you're too goddamn stupid to do that." She took another hit and puffed toward the ceiling.

"Now, then, if you mean it, then maybe we don't need to actually get a divorce. You can stay here with me and Conner. Not in the bedroom, obviously; you get the guest room. And just keep on doing what you been doing — cleaning the house, and doing my laundry and shit — only you'll be doing Conner's laundry, too. It'll be like a job. Conner will be your boss. Both of us will. You'll work for us. I mean, you won't get paid or nothing. But that's what it'll be like. He can quit the warehouse and concentrate on the band; you'll keep on taking care of the bills and shit, like you already do.

"Or, if you want ..." She leaned back and crossed her legs. "I'll go ahead and file the divorce papers, and you'll move the fuck out, because I'll take this house and half of everything else you got — and you know I will. Either way, Conner's moving in. If you want to stay married to me, that's how it's gonna be, straight up."

I couldn't process this. Her words rattled around in my head: Chores ... she wants me to do chores ... for her and ... him. Ugh, him ... moving in ... or she'll leave me ... oh my God ... don't leave me ... please ... don't ...

"This ain't fucking Jeopardy," my wife spat, sending my thoughts scattering. "I ain't waiting 20 minutes while you sit there with a stupid look on your face. Say something."

I blinked. "I'm sorry. Um, okay. Okay."

"Okay what? Speak up."

"Okay, if that's what you want."

"If what's what I want?"

"If ... um ... if you want Conner to ... to move in ... I'll do my best to make you happy."

"Make us both happy."

"Make you ... make you both happy."

"And Conner will be your boss."

I shut my eyes. "Conner ... will ... be my boss."

She sneered and dabbed out her cigarette. "Good. Now, go away while I call my baby."

That was it. My deal with the devil was sealed. I got what I wanted — Amy in my life — but at what cost? It's the oldest trick in Satan's backpack, the Faustian bargain, but I was so scared of losing her I signed the contract without a second thought.

When Amy got off the phone, she told me to rent a U-Haul truck the next morning and report to Conner's apartment to help him move. I was terrified at the prospect of facing her lover. From my brief encounters with him he seemed like a smug asshole, and not all that bright. Then again, Amy isn't exactly a Rhodes Scholar, either, but her looks more than make up for it.

I slept in the guest room that night, twisting, turning, crying, and wondering if I'd ever share my wife's bed again. In the morning I called my boss and told him I couldn't shake the flu. Since I rarely miss work, he didn't question me.

The master bedroom door was ajar and I could see the sleeping angel. She looked so peaceful lying in the fetal position, hugging her pillow. A lump formed in my throat as I realized she'd soon be cuddling another man in that bed. I stood in the hallway adoring her for as long as I dared before pulling on my coat and trooping out into the cold.

The nearest U-Haul dealer was at an IGA store. I felt ashamed to look the clerk in the eye as I asked for a 17-foot truck.

He nodded. "Where you moving to?"

I fought the urge to puke. "Um, just across town."

He must've sensed I wasn't in the mood for small talk because he wrote up my order without further comment. I stood there, hands in pockets, swimming in shame. There was no way this guy could've suspected why I was renting the truck, but it felt like the whole world knew.

On the drive to Conner's place I had a tough time gripping the steering wheel because my hands were sweaty and shaking. I parked the rig in the lot outside Conner's building and stood near his unit for a good 10 minutes, trying to slow down my breathing. Finally, I worked up the courage to knock.

The door swung open and Conner's muscular frame filled the entranceway. "Come on in," he said in his all-too-familiar baritone as he moved aside. I slipped past him and ventured into his messy apartment.

He pushed the door shut. Before I could take another step, he clapped my shoulder.

"Listen, we need to get one thing straight from the get-go." He hovered over me, six inches taller, glaring down.

"Amy is mine. You don't touch her, you don't fucking look at her. I know you're technically still married, but she's done with your ass. We're only letting you stay with us because she said you'd pay all the bills and clean the house and shit. She said you'd be, like, our servant. Is that right?"

I forced my mouth to move: "Uh, yeah."

He shook his head. "You're about a spineless mother-fucker. Dude, ain't you got no self-respect? She don't love you."

I swallowed. "I ... I just want her to be happy."

"Well, then, we got something in common because I want her to be happy, too. And you know what makes her happy? Me. You can stay and be our little bitch if you want to, but I catch you looking at her the wrong way I'll throw your fucking ass out on the sidewalk. You got a problem with that?"

My lips trembled. I managed to whisper "no."

"Yeah, I didn't think so. An old-ass wimp like you don't deserve a girl like her. She says you make a shitload of money; you're, like, some kind of stocks and bonds dude or some shit. How much you make a year?"

"Uh ... well, it depends on the market ... um, anywhere from $350-400 thousand."

"Yeah?" He cocked his head. "That's good. Yep, this whole thing just might work out — as long as you remember what's what. Just pretend I'm your boss from now on because I am. Congratulations. You got the job. You can be me and Amy's little bitch. Starting pay: Zero dollars an hour."

I stood there gobsmacked as Conner fell back onto the couch and picked up his X-Box remote. "Well, get to work, dumb-ass. Start in the bedroom; there's boxes in there. Pack up all my shit and put it in the U-Haul. Don't touch my guitar, though. I'll take that." He snapped his fingers. "Go."

My ears were red as I turned to obey. It had taken him less than two seconds to establish dominance, as I fell naturally into my beta role. It was a primal, frightening rush. I realized for the first time who I really was. Conner was right. I have no business being with Amy. Women like her crave men like him — not short, fat, bald dweebs like me.

I boxed up all Conner's belongings, then made trip after trip lugging armloads from the apartment to the U-Haul while he sat on his ass in the living room playing video games and smoking weed. He didn't offer to help and I was too scared to ask.

After his boxes were stacked in the truck I tackled the heavy stuff. I struggled to push an 18-inch subwoofer cabinet through the living room while he lay on the couch talking on the phone. I knew right away it was my wife on the line.

"Oh, yeah, babe, he's a good worker — for being so out of shape." He toked a joint, idly watching me wriggle the heavy speaker across the floor. I bumped it on the door frame.