Day 2 of the nastiest argument we've ever had. Two solid days of being incredibly pissed at each other, each believing the other is totally wrong.

Unlike every other protracted argument we've ever had, though, I've not forgotten what this one was about when it started. This time I haven't forgotten every cruel thing she said, just to hurt me.

This time, I'm not backing down, either. If she expects to continue living this lifestyle, she will get a job and earn the money required to finance it. Not because I'm just an asshole, but because once we buy this house, the money she's used to pissing away won't be there anymore.

No more bullshit. No more excuses. Want to buy things? Go spend your money. Want some money? Go earn some. No, I will not fill out your job applications for you. No, I couldn't possibly take your interviews for you and land your job for you. No, telling an employer "I don't have any idea why you'd possibly want to hire me" will not get you a job because you're honest. No, passive resistance will not work this time.

...and no matter how she rationalizes it, it is not my fault she chose to address our relationship problems a few years ago by fucking anything with a dick. It is not my fault she chose to give up her hopes and dreams. It is not my fault she hates everyone and everything in this world. It is not my fault she is now "afraid" to even leave this apartment without an escort.

I have done everything I can conceive of to help her. I've consoled her when she's frightened. I've stayed by her side each and every time she's put drugs in her stomach to try to kill herself. I've tolerated every bit of mental abuse she's ever piled on me. I've been honest, not soft, with her when she needs it.

I've spent years wondering ... "is this really my fault? Could I really be as awful as she says I am?"

The self-serving answer, fortunately, happens to be right one. No, I'm not. I'm a damned good husband. I'm faithful. I earn good money. I share all I have with her. I do everything with her. I do not beat her. I do not insult or chastise her. I do not mentally abuse her. I do not restrict her movements or freedoms. I do not stifle her creativity. I encourage her in every endeavour. I have fulfilled her dreams of moving to Vegas, owning a nice sportscar, and now owning a home. She lives the cushiest lifestyle a person would possibly want.

And she's honestly so selfish and evil that she will soon destroy it all with her own hands.

Somehow I suspect actually getting into this new house and putting up with all the closing bullshit will be a bittersweet, and very hollow, personal achievement. The house will be new, but all the fucking emotional baggage that's moving into it with me is the same old shit.