I've lost my motivation in Candy Caned (December 2019)

where is my motivation
no time for demonstration
smoking…my…inspir....a-tion…

I think. That was from memory. Rabid Green Day fans may accept my apology.

Woke up being shouted at. Very over sleeping in the formal dining room, kthanks. Now the computer I need for finals is being monopolized by an asshole child who is shouting about “reverse donuts” as she plays a racing game twenty inches away from me. She’s shouting because she’s listening to Youtube too damn loudly because her sister’s playing fucking Persona and that ain’t quiet, either. Who needs sleep anyway. Sleep is for losers.

Wait, I’m a loser. Where the fuck is my sleep.

Nothing bothers Spouse. He quacked a bit about the noise but has gone silent now, which means he’s asleep again. He could sleep through a nuclear blast. I wish he would, because then he’d be dead and that’d be awesome for me. It occurs to me that one should not consistently resent her spouse, but an exchange we had earlier this week leaves me utterly baffled, and I am forced to realize that this numb shit thinks I am happy. He thinks our relationship is GREAT. It’s not. It’s not even functional.

I have very few hard rules for a relationship. I’m pretty sure this is all of them:
-no forced intercourse. if I don’t want to, you can discuss that with Mrs. Palm and her five daughters, ‘k?
-no irresponsibility. when I ask you for a supportive measure, you step up or explain why you’re out.
-don’t touch the children. As in, sexually. I don’t want to serve life for murdering your lame ass, and if you hurt them, I will have to. Although I bet I could get acquitted for explaining exactly why the hell I tied you to a tree with your intestines and jammed your cock down your own throat.
-step the fuck UP. have a complaint? go FIX IT. Is the house cold? Go use the woodstove you told us all you were SO HAPPY we had even though none of us are fucking Boy Scouts. I can kind of use it, but you complain I’m not doing it “right” and um, well, that makes it YOUR JOB. Which means you don’t get to complain about cold, dude. I DO.
-let me do my damn work. whatever I have decided that is right now.
-you’re partially responsible for finances so spend responsibly you numb fifty-buck-pizza ordering fuck for brains.
-if you promise it, you have to pay up. In a reasonable timeframe.

There are precedents for every one of those rules. Which means they have ALL been broken. Except the sexual contact and the children one. Which shouldn’t be at number 3, but this was a randomly generated list, and I’m more worried about another go at #1, which happens every now and again. Yes, as in, I occasionally get raped or harassed by the man who lives here because he’s just so happy to meet my “needs.” Or whatever he tells himself when he keeps asking and I keep saying no. Or he tells me how he really resents our lack of sex life since he went ahead and got that vasectomy. (Great! You promised you’d do that when I was like 7 months pregnant with our almost 14 year old twin daughters, man. When did you do it? They were ELEVEN then. And we hadn’t had sex since they were…five? Because hygiene, you numb fuck, and the fact that I just don’t want you.)

But yeah, despite that, we’re apparently happily married in his head.

Life sounds nicer in his head, but I have real concerns for the wife paper doll he keeps in his head if he thinks he can talk her into having sex with him. Because I’m saying no. I won’t even entertain the topic.

I told him if he wants to discuss that, we need to find an actual, licensed marriage therapist. This is mostly because I will spew it ALL and I want it properly documented for divorce court.

The rest is because I know he’ll retreat into fantasy before even starting to look for a professional marriage therapist. Because this…isn’t a relationship anymore. It’s some kind of punishment. But I don’t know what I did wrong, and I’m really starting to hate being here.