I was the luckiest bastard alive.
If I have to tattoo that sentence on my own forehead so I never forget it, fine. Consider it done.
I didn't hunt these women down like some tragic pickup artist with a spreadsheet and a neckbeard.
No.
The universe literally gift-wrapped them for me at the exact moment their marriages had decayed into beige resentment and mutual hostage situations.
Year five, year twelve, year twenty-three—didn't matter. The timeline always looked the same: spark → routine → quiet contempt → guest bedroom resentment → separate vacations → "we're just growing apart" → me sliding in like the final boss of better orgasms.
Cosmic luck? Or the statistical inevitability that every long-term relationship eventually turns into a shared lease on emotional furniture nobody wants to sit on anymore?
Both. Definitely both.
Every single one of them had a different flavor of husband-failure:
The "I provide, therefore I'm done trying" guy
