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I am committing suicide with my vice-ridden life, but a woman is responsible for my slow demise. She is like a cancer that goes into remission and then upon my next visit to the psychiatrist I discover that the disease has metastasized. The doctor increases my medication. He comments that my condition is terminal, but the meds will allow me a few more months or years of life.

She infected the marrow in my bones and the matter in my brain. I am imploding. When I hear and read about women complaining that their men are abusing them, I ask myself if these gals are at fault and then act surprised when their ex-lovers want to drag them over the edge and into the abyss with them.

I have never known a more vicious animal than the human female. They will lure you into their webs or lairs. After they have sucked you dry with the calculated way they give their loose bodies, they fill you with their venom and laugh at you as their poisons consume you while they turn their attention to their next victims.

There are days I don't want to rise from bed. There are other days I don't leave my room. She torments me 24/7/365. I avoid booze and pot when I'm in these dark moods. They only compound my depression and fill my mind with suicidal thoughts.

I have wronged many women. I have never physically abused anyone, but I have punished them psychologically when dealing with them on a daily basis with a concatenation combination of disappointment and disenchantment. For my heinous deeds my karma is exacting its pound of flesh.

When it came to her, I wanted her flesh. I didn't need anyone to wash or clean or cook for me. I could take care of myself as well as contribute financially to assure we lived comfortable lives materialistically.

"All you have to do is make love to me!" I would tell her.

And she couldn't do it. She would treat me like a beggar at the bridge, throwing a coin in my can with a shrug that she had more than done her duty.

While she would wound and scar me with tales about her many past lovers and their prowess in the sack or in the back seat of a car or on the floor of a closet or up against a wall or on a desk in an office, she would huff during intercourse, "Hurry up! You bore me. Sex used to be exciting!"

Women are shocked when they come down with a venereal disease, which gives them the convenient excuse for which they have been searching to cheat on their spouses.

The problem with being madly in love is the final act: You are reduced to a mad man stumbling blindly from day to day while she jumps from bed to bed. She doesn't deceive herself with hope. 

In Spanish they say that one nail drives out another nail. Why hasn't fate been kind enough to deliver me a hammer and nail so I can deliver myself from this anguish? Will I never escape this purgatory or have I been condemned to hell?

When I hear that an enraged husband has shot and killed his unfaithful wife, I recall from my readings in the Old Testament that God raised no protest as the adulteress was stoned to death. How can a woman call herself a mother when she has spent her entire life giving herself  to so many men? 

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