Former California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger and his wife of 25 years, Maria Shriver, announced Monday that they were separating. Terminating, nullifying, destroying their goodly godly contract of marriage. There was a rumor floating around rural North Dakota about a scandalous infidelity, a night of disco, and some kind of strange venereal disease, but those were just free-floating rumors.
A spokesman for the Schwarzenegger said the former gov and Shriver were working on the future while living apart and they would continue to parent their four children together. “This has been a time of great personal and professional transition for each of us,” the ex-couple said in a prepared statement. “After a great deal of thought, reflection, discussion, and prayer, we came to this decision together.”
Shriver, in an act of soulful ugliness, said, “It’s so stressful to not know what you’re doing next. People ask you what you are doing and then they can’t believe that you don’t know what you’re doing.” Let me tell you, this stress Maria Shriver is speaking of is some serious stress. This is stress to the first degree, but you won’t be able to contextualize this stress unless I put it up against a few other comparable instances of stress. Such as:
Maria Shriver’s life is so stressful, it’s like the stress endured by a young child whose parents no longer love one another and are separating. For Maria Shriver, who doesn’t know what to do next, her life is as stressful as someone in Alabama who just lost their home and maybe a family member or two in the freak power-storms that wiped out entire neighborhoods.
It’s about as stressful as the 10 million and more Americans who can’t find jobs to save their lives, or feed their families.
It’s as stressful as a young couple awaiting their child’s medical results, praying for a benign reading.
It’s so stressful to not know what you’re going to do next, especially for Shriver, and that stress is like the stress of a junkie who can’t get clean, who is blind from shooting in the eyeball, and his nose and palate are eaten from sniffing H, his body a mass of scar tissue hard and dry as wood.
Not knowing what to do next, especially when you’re Shriver, is as stressful as being locked in the brig at Guantanamo Bay, barely able to understand English, not able to give the correct answer to your sadistic, spittle-spraying guard who repeatedly beats you and calls you a terrorist, and you, feeling like a broken dog, just wants to see his family once more.
It’s as stressful as being a farmer in Afghanistan and wondering why the U.S. soldiers keep invading certain areas of your village, and wondering when they are going to bust down your door like they did to some of your neighbors, and you’re wondering if your boys are going to get shot by NATO helicopters like some of the boys in the other village.
To be Maria Shriver at this earth-shattering point in her life is as stressful as being an Iraqi mother who has lost both her son and her husband in the U.S. invasion of Iraq, has seen her marketplace blown to bits, has no income because she is a woman and cannot get a job, even though there are no jobs, and there is also no electricity ever since the first bombs fell on Baghdad.
Readerly note: I heavily borrowed from Burroughs about the H.
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