Life would be simple. On any given day all that would be left is working until I'm about to drop then going home to listen to the wife complain, yell at her adult children who still expect her to do everything for them and the constant honey-dew list. The stress relieving sanctuary of bowling now gone, I would revert back to the way I was before. The lonely, dark days of VA shrinks trying to determine if I would snap and become a mass murderer. The PTSD controlling me instead of me controlling it ruin any life I happen to cross. All because I couldn't hurl a 15 pound, round object at 4 pound sticks. To hear the sickening thud of a DV8 produced object of destruction driving through the wooden sticks, sending them flying in every direction.
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