There are days and instances when I thank my stars that I never married.  Well, I married Angelique, but I did so under duress.  I also loathe every fiber of her being, so that must disqualify it.  Or, given my observations of others, perhaps it is the sure thing that legitimizes it!

In any event, Quentin’s wife, Jenny, made her way into my home, wrought with homicidal rage, certain hysteria, and a dash of insecurity.  The latter was evidenced by her screaming about “her” looking back at her whenever she gazed into a mirror.  That was my first clue that she might be somewhat dissatisfied with various elements of her life.  Perhaps the knife she was brandishing was a second warning sign, however there are those who might argue that her background as a stage entertainer simply put her in the mood to demonstrate dagger-tossing.  I shall never know.

Still, Quentin somewhat deserves such a sterling example of womanhood, and, in lieu of that, I simply needed to distract her.  To do so, I bravely sacrificed Josette’s cosmetics and a dress quickly altered by Yours Truly.  I was impressed that the result appeared far less reptilian than the woman who entered my home a tad earlier.

Now, I await a second opinion.  Preferably one from someone armed with a revolver, fine aim, and a healthy streak of misguided misogyny.




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