Sherry McGavin and the Sixth Reich

Being married to Greg was a daily struggle. Looking back I don’t know how I did it, how I was able to keep my wits about me and rise up to greatness when for so long I had been suffocated by the whining, small-groined opposite of great.

I tried to make our relationship work, I really did. I let him sit on the same couch as myself and my associates, I had sex with him, I even let him bring me beers despite his small hands causing me to worry that he would drop them. But he spat on my efforts and plagued my life with obnoxious sweaters and passive agressive sarcastic remarks.

Every morning I awoke beside an unattractive man with a high pitched voice and every night I went to bed in relatively clean sheets due to Greg’s low sperm count, a result of his high school years of smoking marijuana in a failed attempt to look cool.

But afternoons were by far the worst, as something had given Greg the impression that he was of high enough social stature to speak to me. All I wanted was a simple life of watching canceled sitcoms and drinking – but no. Greg insisted we “converse” and “strengthen our union.” We were from two separate planets, and he was obviously Pluto.