Like most Americans, I get by on a combination of drugs, brash arrogance, and turning a blind eye to the all-too real limitations of my finite existence. It’s why I spent much of my twenties believing that a legitimate career in professional wrestling was possible. Like, I knew that “legitimate” and “pro wrestling” are about as polar opposites as they get. But some part of me was like, “Yeah. No, I can totally make ends meet making somewhere between ‘hot dog with a handshake’ and ‘Oh. Sorry, but the gate was less than we thought. I’ll get you next time, though.’” Now, I’m in my thirties trying to make it off the loose change I can manage between fits of bad poetry and what I think are jokes.
What I’m getting at here is that I make terrible life choices. Simply awful life choices.
That’s why I read and watch a bunch of awful shit on the internet. You know, for perspective. Reading up on how humanity recently decided to act upon its worst impulses and ideas on any given day affords me the opportunity to reflect on my own stupidity.
For example, an Illinois man was recently convicted of murder after beating his wife to death with a weight lifting bar on their front lawn back in 2012. When asked for comment, the man claimed his guilty conviction was a matter of discrimination, on account of him being Egyptian.
Look. I get it. The American criminal justice system is a broken, cruel mess that has never been even remotely close to humane. But if it took six years to convict an Egyptian man of murdering his wife with a giant metal bar in full view of all his neighbors, that’s about as a fair and impartial as it can ever get.
Also. The guy actually attempted an insanity plea, which, despite what movies and TV will have you believe, is a pretty rare move.
What mental illness could have possibly driven a man to fitness his wife to death with a big, fuckin’ stick, you ask? Depression. And his symptoms at the time included not shaving and showering and having difficulty eating and sleeping.
I have depression. At times, all I want to do is pet my dog and cry as I contemplate the misery of my own continued existence versus a litany of alternatives. Most of the time, all I do is write the aforementioned bad poetry and jokes. We all process things differently. I get it. But I’ve never once thought to beat my wife to death–or anyone else, for that matter–with a big, fuckin’ stick.
Also-also: I’ll admit I’m not sure how to close this one out, because I feel it might be a bit inappropriate to end a story about domestic violence with a punchline.
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