Well, I enjoyed it while it lasted, but it looks like the fun police (A.K.A. my wife of 25 years) has put an end to my good time by telling me I have to immediately stop sexting the Bride of Frankenstein.

All these years, I have remained faithful to the vows I took on my wedding day: to kiss, to thrust, and to deposit in whatever receptacle deemed most appropriate. And though I never specifically agreed to abstain from sending and receiving lust-filled, vile messages (that ultimately revealed how little I understand about the female body) with a monster created in a laboratory, this is the very thing that has angered my wife.

It’s another example of my wife’s long-term plan to ruin my life. First, she takes my hand-drawn pictures of Amelia Bedelia in lingerie down, even though they were in my man cave, which is supposed to be my space, and therefore reflective of my decorative choices. Then she refuses to let me invest all of our savings into my business venture: a bar that has a back patio where you can dig a bunch of holes and I, dressed as your father, tell you stuff like, “That’s a real good hole, kiddo,” “You’re doing your Pop proud, bud,” and “We’re going to bury a time capsule out here, sport.”

When I want to zig, she wants to zag. Just the other night, she was chirping in my ear about how I ruined dinner by challenging our waiter to a duel. He was condescending when he told me that they didn’t have a bowl full of microwaved Snickers bars for dessert. I was like, “Dude, run over to the CVS across the street, grab some Snickers bars, throw them in a bowl, and microwave it. It’s not rocket science.” I thought I was in the doghouse then, as my wife was yelling at me, “Why can’t you just be normal?” “You used to be such a nice man,” “This all started after you got struck by lightning while reading a Maxim magazine,” etc.

But that was nothing compared to her ire when she found out about these texts. She was screaming, “I’m going to divorce you unless you stop texting the Bride of Frankenstein! I’m fed up with your shit!” Meanwhile, I’m sitting there taking all her insults, thinking, “Can we wrap this up soon so I can get back to watching skateboarding videos online?” I swear to God, she treats me so badly that you’d think I was one of the guys who did ISIS.

Thankfully, I can still cherish memories of the correspondence I shared with Mrs. Frankenstein’s Monster. Messages like, “Let’s see that hog,” “I am still waiting to see that hog,” and “Wherefore art thine hog?” may be deleted from my inbox, but they’re permanently imprinted in my brain.

As my relationship with the Bride of Frankenstein comes to a close, I find myself reflecting on its inception. I first met her when I went to go sign up for the Army. She was working at the recruiting station and gave me my physical (a lot of people don’t know this, but the Bride of Frankenstein is actually really patriotic and also has a medical degree). I am told that I had the quickest physical in the Army’s history, as it only lasted for six seconds. She took one look at me and said, “You are the most pathetic specimen I have ever seen. You will not join the Army.” I thanked her for her candor and asked her for a ride home.

I like to think that she agreed to give me a ride because she was intrigued by the six badass tally marks I have tattooed on my neck (one for every time I sustained a pencil-related injury during mini golf and still finished the game), but it also could have to do with the fact that I stood in front of her car and refused to move unless she gave me a ride. Regardless of the reason, it turned out we actually had a lot in common. Like her, my fiercest critics have also called me an affront to God. Anyway, one thing led to another, and the next thing I knew, I was exchanging sexually explicit messages with the most beautiful re-animated corpse I had ever seen.

The hardest thing I have ever done is tell the Bride of Frankenstein that it’s over. I have a feeling that the second hardest thing I’ll ever do will be explaining to my wife that we have to enter the witness protection program because the Bride of Frankenstein told her husband about our texts and now he’s trying to kill me. Geez Louise, I am dreading that conversation. If only I hadn’t signed all of my text messages and emails with my home address and work schedule. I don’t know why I didn’t think to exclude that info.

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