The most unpleasant thing in married life is a mismatch in timing. Let's say you want to fight, but she's gone to bed. And you have to. And you just have to: and there is time, and a great excuse. And there is no one to take it all in. All the words are lined up - no one to launch at. At your shout: "Are you asleep? - There is no answer. - Why are you suddenly sleeping at night?"
No. We don't need such a wife.
For a scandal must take a temperamental, bad asleep, easily switched to a squeal, crying and shaking person. Then you are always in good shape: fast, sensitive, elusive, like a young lynx. You don't sleep at night, but lie in a corner on a rag with your head held high and listening.
Because of your manner of dodging, you have practically run out of cups and plates. It's a musical scandal, all the neighbors will confirm. It is a musical scandal, a concert scandal, very interesting from the outside. In the beginning your low voice, there's something like: boo-boo-boo-boo-boo, then howling, squealing, crying, ah, bah-bah, the service entered - and silence. In the second part, your lively low voice again - boo-boo-boo, rising, howl, squeal, squeak, bang - silence.
All in all, such a wife is invigorating and exhilarating, but the class doesn't give.
To complete life you need to take a star of scandal, a master of the word, cold, angry, intelligent, sealing with two words and forever. Then you squeal and cry, grab the walls, the pills, drip past the glass, and lick up all you can get your hands on for long separate nights.
This is high class. It doesn't act on the surface, it cripples your internal organs. And it gives you an accurate nickname for the rest of your life: "Hey, you jerk-ass lowlife." When you walk down the street with her on your arm, that's how she treats you, just before she meets her friends. You have a skull through your face and already you have a smile on your skull. "Decided to get some air?" - your friends ask. Just the way you can't breathe. To kill - yes! To die, yes! Everyone asks: what's the matter with you? And she asks: what's the matter with you? There's no one to answer, you have no sound.
It's a real life-accelerating scandal. In between such scandals, love is good. Furious, last, with a loss of consciousness, with a break for resuscitation. After which she also files for divorce.
For! Ah for, for, a woman is not spoiled by scandal, but refreshed by it. She scandals and lives. And you yell, "Drop dead!" - you immediately obey...