The upside of living with a sex addict is that when she comes home after getting together with ____ and is in a good-ish mood (for a while) all giddy and happy (for a while) with that glow of post you know what, but then starts to get all cranky and mean and nasty with the kids and the spouse and herself and everyone and everything and every idea and story and song and thought and concept in the universe because she hates herself and hates ____ and hates them and you and it and everything, at least there's no him for you to hate, to despise, no need to plan on ripping his fucking lungs out through his nostrils because there is no him, just a series of faceless nameless _____, a lifeless nothingness floating out in space like the background radiation from a star that exploded long, long ago, long before you were in the picture, before you even arrived at this peculiar part of the galaxy with your busted up ship and your practical wisdom and your big ideas about intergalactic harmony. So there's no one to hate. It's a wasted emotion in any case, but particularly when there's no love lost, none that's gone missing. No matter. Can't spend what you ain't got, so the song goes, can't lose what you never had.
Anyway there's word from Tralfamador that the spare part is on its way. Just have to hang in there a little longer is all.