Foreverland: On the Divine Tedium of Marriage

My default mode on most busy days is withdrawn cynicism.

That’s life in the suburbs: pretending that nothing is bothering you while you eat something shitty.

Why is this person always the same, and always in the way—a mumbling roadblock, a pointy Lego brick underfoot, a smelly heap of laundry blocking the bathroom door—and also, somehow, the only path back to sanity?

That’s the irony of escaping urban elitism: the consistent mediocrity of the suburbs will make you into more of an elitist.

I didn’t realize how much internalized misogyny was wrapped up in my perception of women of all stripes, not just mothers. The truth was, I found fault with most of the women I encountered in the world. Every single one of them looked like a cautionary tale of what not to become. I didn’t realize yet that I was huffing the patriarchal spray paint t

Over time, marriage itself starts to feel like a slowly unfolding apocalypse. Your marriage will die or you will die. Which ending seems happier?

After a while, it can be hard to know who to hate more, the people letting their dogs shit all over the place or the people thrusting their shitting-dog cartoons in your face at every turn.

Every book about marriage is also a book about mortality, since the success of any marriage is defined not by happiness or good fortune but by death.

When Bill sneezes, it’s like a blast from an air horn aimed at your face. No matter where he is in the house, his sneezes are excruciatingly loud. Somehow there are two notes involved, a screechy high one and a shouty low one. It’s as if someone in the next room has spotted a bear and they’re making this high-pitched yet also bellowing bark of hyst