Solution #1 

Stick that red-polka-dotted dildo deep inside you. Remind yourself to have some me-time while Ken is at the golf club fucking the shit out of the caddy who walks around laying balls on the floor while slapping his balls all over Kenny’s car door.  Don’t let the lack of extrinsic pleasure  disrupt your intrinsic arousal as you ooze glue all over that plump, purple pull-out-sofa-bed you and Kenny bought for late-night Friends reruns and mediocre, orgasm-less, fun. Do not think about the late night hoes who come over and moan while you pretend to be tired and fall asleep to    Kenny’s low, grouchy groans as he attends his late-night visitors with his homemade vanilla ice cream seeds. Crawl through the second-story window, as gently as your cat who soundlessly lands on top of your pillow, and balance yourself on the ledge that sticks 1 inch out, in between the walls of domesticity. Illicitly listen to raindrops falling  silently and sinisterly, peering over the sky and looking into your eye as they fall on top of you, reminding you why you do not like to cry. As they push you down, you start to feel like you are about to drown, and reach towards them. As you try to grab the morning sky, you close your eyes and tip forward. As you plunge head first into the end of your peril, you prepare for the cemented, bitter taste of sidewalk and swiftly ascend into a feather-like state that allows you to witness your brains splattered across the ashy, opaque, concrete floor.

 Solution #2

Wait until Kenny is unconscious before you drown both of them in melatonin and ride them until you fall into a deep sleep. Tape a note to their assholes before you leave. As you turn the faded, fake-gold knob carrying most of the shit you will need, do not look back. Not even to check if one of them has stirred, realized you are not there or the fact that you took most of his crap that will potentially sell for some good-ass crack.

 Solution #3

Divorce Kenny. For the last 10 years, you have dealt with his homosexual shit and you are depleted, drained, running out of the life you once knew to live in you. Your fallen spirit resides in the soles of wool-covered feet crunching on sticky, slippery ice as you stalk his midnight mistresses. In the lacy straps of your lazy, loungey bras that come off five minutes within seeing each other after work in your lime-painted halls. In the frames of those wine-red glasses, you were always so fond of even after they left you so heartbroken when they split into two during that one, jagged car ride to that trivial movie you had never really cared to see. You can move to Antarctica and never move back. Or maybe Florida, somewhere hot and humid where you can get hot and heavy as you sweat away every stupidly insignificant haze of your pathetic life as Ken’s cis, straight, trophy wife. You can sacrifice him to your ancestors from Alabaster, AL, scream faggot and never look back. You can cut off his penis, glue it to his mouth with your cement cum and never think back. 

Solution #4

Go to church. Attend Sunday mass where all you see is falsity passed around with every optional yet seemingly necessary money donation and heart of the nation printed on thin, cheap flax pamphlets that smell of the deceased who never actually saw or made it to heaven. Think about Ken as you think about the devil in every protruding eye and snobby nose that is raised and pointed at you in hopes of rubbing off their redemption into every handshake with you. Try to get Kenny out of your head and let go of  the fact that he is Satan awaiting you at home, lying in bed. Try and actually listen to what the priest has just said for he is some kind of Malachi or Mark,which deems him legit not poisonous lead. Think about the way in which Jesus lay on the blood-coated cross that idolized his slaying. Do notcompare yourself to the son of God as you plan every possible way in which you will spill blood and label yourself “sacrifice” for the kingdom of love that Kenny has become as you revere his sins holy gospels. Keep going to church on Sundays. Pray for Kenny’s salvation as you finger your sexual frustration. Memorize every proverb and repent until you think about nothing else except how to cum to survive, be sane and stay married to Ken. 

Solution #5

Do not divorce Ken. Continue to lie in bed next to him, heartbeat fluttering faster than a hummingbird’s wings, body warmth seeping off those electric blue bed sheets like thick, sizzling lava emitting suffocating clouds of heat. Your electric blue soul buzzes and hopes for cohabited eternity. Pray next to him, maybe pray for him, and pray for yourself too. I know you want to do all the horrible things you thought you would never say aloud let alone think about yet you never will because the greatest thing you fear, besides Kenny’s being queer and your homophobic tears, is being alone. You will never be alone again after spending a lifetime watching it tear apart every loved one you have ever known or called home. Stay with Kenny. Look past every one of his hidden sins that lies disguised in the disarray of used crystal wine glasses and opened white cabinets. Witness the brightness of those electric blue bed sheets wither away. Save yourself by not divorcing him.