Diary Complaints

My wife keeps a diary, and sometimes leaves it open with the last entry in the table view. I am a person who does not want to read the diary of another person, even my wife, being personal diaries. But out of a corner of my eye, in the diary page, I saw my name. I could not read.

"I can not let the negativity of John to get to me," read the diary.

What do ya 'mean, bad? I thought. I'm not negative. Sure, they complain a bit 'because I am not a rich man. I have a relative who gets paid thousands of dollars, a shock of lower middle class that does nothing but count sofas in a furniture outlet. The boy thinks Arnold Schwarzenegger is a good actor. It is so stupid it is and does all this money.

They are the only man in my family who could take the bad luck I had not become a drug addict, or ending up in an insane asylum, for this and I'm Called negative. I work endlessly, without a vacation. I put up with a cocky kid and a wife who gives me for granted.

Me negative?

Grumbling, I moved beyond the diary and went out to mow the lawn. The next day, Sunday, my wife left the house, and the diary was opened again and there was a new step.

"Why do I have to deal with stress like that?" Read it. "I can not stand the complaining. We are now more than ever the distance. Yet, as John has the spirit and feeling ........"

"Well, at least that last part is good," I told the journal.

"He needs to feel not the world is against him," the journal added.

The world is against me? I never said that. Remember when Cynthia (my wife's friend), that college educated snob too (she thinks he is better because it is a Hollywood screenwriter who knows the names of all the English king). Remember when his father died in Hawaii, and I forgot, and she has returned from the funeral and asked innocently, thinking that he had gone there on holiday, "How was Hawaii?"

"I dare not say that," Cynthia had growled bitterly.

It 'was an innocent mistake. Cynthia had the right to be angry. But I took the Guff. I wanted to throw it out the window, but I did not. I just decided I'd never speak to her again.

Disgusted, I put the diary down and went and racked dishes in an automatic dishwasher. Wiping her hands, I went back and took the diary, and flipped back a page.

"John does not listen. Stop and have the last word, read it.

"Bull!"

I took a pencil and made my journal entry. I copied my wife's style of writing. "My husband is handsome, muscular saint," I wrote. "I must allow him some vices."

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