When he hurts me (un)intentionally by telling the truth or not enough of it, by doing too much one way and not another, I enjoy telling him he’s a cunt and a bastard and I hate him and he’s evil. I scream, he’s a misogynist, he hates women, I see it as a quagmire at the centre of him and he says, yes, I do, I hate women. I blame his mother. I say your mother is unable to praise you and so you seek the adoration of women around you. He agrees with me. He enjoys hearing my insults hurled at him like Molotov cocktails, almost closing his eyes in ecstasy.
