The Day I Realized I Was Just Another Appliance in the House

There wasn’t a dramatic moment. No cheating scandal. No screaming match. Just another fucking Sunday.

I’d mowed the entire fucking property for hours, fixed the garbage disposal with YouTube and some handy work, and spent twenty minutes in the garage resetting the fucking breaker because her whatever the fuck shorted the house. Again.

I came upstairs, covered in dust and resentment, and asked—stupidly, like an actual man with fucking needs—if she wanted to sit with me and watch something.
She looked up from her fucking phone, sighed, and said something fucking neglectful like:
“Ugh. I’m tired. Can you just go turn the dryer back on?”

And that’s when it hit me.

I’m not her fucking husband.
I’m not her fucking partner.
I’m a fucking appliance.

I’m a walking, talking, slightly angry Swiss Army knife who makes money, kills spiders, fixes shit, and occasionally gets yelled at because of whatever fucking retarded reason she's got on her fucking head.

Welcome to the Marriage Economy

In this house, everything has value—except me.

The dog gets belly rubs.
The kids get praise for breathing and waking up.
Her fat fucking mother gets daily phone calls and emotional validation.

Me? I get the chore list and that dead-eyed “what do you fucking want now?” stare if I dare fucking speak after 8PM. Or any fucking time for that matter.

It’s not that she doesn’t acknowledge me. She does.
The same way she acknowledges the goddamned refrigerator when it’s empty.
The same way she acknowledges the fucking toilet when it won’t flush.
She only notices me when something’s broken or unavailable.

Romance? That died somewhere between baby #2 and the fourth time she screamed at me in front of the kids because I decided to voice my frustration with her neglectful fucking behavior.
Intimacy? I’d get more affection from Alexa if she had fucking hands.

They Don’t Want Husbands—They Want Servants With Credit Scores

Let’s stop fucking pretending.
These modern wives don’t want partners—they want subscription services.

They want:

• The emotional labor of a best friend

• The income of a CEO

• The obedience of a dog

• The selflessness of a martyr

• And the sexual stamina of a porn star (but only when they’re in the mood… which is never)

Meanwhile, you?
You just want a little appreciation. A little respect. Maybe a blowjob without it being a goddamn birthday gift wrapped in guilt. Some fucking sort of fucking affection like she even gives a fiddler's fuck!

But nah. You’re the fucking Human Wallet. Keep working and paying for shit, champ.

The Joke's on Us—and We're Living It

The worst part?
They’ll gaslight you into thinking you’re the problem.

“You don’t do enough around here.”
“You’re emotionally unavailable.”
“You’ve changed.”

Damn right I’ve changed.
I used to be a fucking man. Now I’m a barely fucking functional home appliance with a mortgage, chest pain, and a growing list of reasons to end it fucking all.

But Here's the Shift

You’re not fucking alone.
There are millions of us living in these quiet fucking marital prisons, tiptoeing around emotional landmines, being slowly eroded by cunts who couldn’t care less if we live or die—as long as the bills are paid and the Wi-Fi works.

And this ends fucking now.

No more Mr. Fix-It.
No more emotional pack mule.
No more pretending we’re happy so she can keep playing the victim on Instagram or fucking scrolling tiktok.

We aren’t broken. They are.
We’re just used. And we’re fucking done.

SHARE THIS with your brothers in silence.

Someone needs to say it:
You deserve more than to be treated like a fucking appliance.