My name is Frank. Every morning I wake up next to a woman who married me because she was getting older and less attractive, plus most of her girlfriends were already having babies. I’m the best she thought she could do, and I wanted a stab at regular sex. So I bought her a four thousand dollar finger stone to calm her insecurities. A year later, we’re expecting a baby. She’s excited, but I can’t stop thinking about what a terrible fucking thing it is for two people who got married for stupid, superficial reasons to bring a life into this increasingly fucked up world.
After I prepare for the day, my wife serves me the usual breakfast of bacon, eggs, and a cinnamon roll. I’ve gained weight since the marriage. On the way to work, a pit forms in my stomach. I hate my boss, who lords over me while I perform a job I got only because I somehow earned a piece of paper after drinking beer in college for four years. I feel my blood pressure spike as I walk into the office, and all I can really hope for is a day in which I deal with as little bullshit as possible before 5 o’clock.
On the way home from work, I sometimes stop at the gym. I really don’t know what I’m doing, but with the baby on the way, I don’t have the extra money for a personal trainer. So I go through the motions and try to work up a sweat, which doesn’t always happen. I tire easily.
Wednesday night is meatloaf, garlic bread, and mashed potatoes. After I eat, I’ll generally watch some television or thumb through a magazine or a book, but not for long, as I’m simply too exhausted. Even for sex. But I look forward to the weekends, on which I play a round or two of golf with a few of my co-worker buddies. We drink a few beers along the way. Sometimes more than a few. Their lives are a lot like mine, and while they used to seem unhappy about things, I now hear they’re taking antidepressants. They seem happier. I’m thinking about starting them next week.