Back when I (68M) was a young and dumb twenty-something, I spent a few carefree years in Southern California raping, torturing, and murdering hitchhikers. I don't want any judgement from SJWs about this, please, if you didn't live in Cali in the 1970s, you wouldn't understand. It was just what we did back in those days. Eventually I grew up, got married, had three beautiful kids, and was content to just get off to my trophies and polaroids, and maybe kill the occasional drifter on special occasions.
The other day, my wife (37F) found the hidden panel in my basement wall where I keep all the old memories, and she went ballistic. I tried to calm her down, explained that, firstly, they were all dudes, so she shouldn't exactly be getting jealous. Second, they're all dead, so it's not like she's going to have to worry about me leaving her for any of them. Third, there were like three or four other guys doing the same thing around then, and they took the credit for most of my kills. I was very careful, covered my tracks, rarely finished inside them. I don't know why she's got her knickers in such a twist.
Quite frankly, I'm feeling really hurt about the whole thing. We've been together for nearly thirty years, and she's thinking about leaving me over something like this? Maybe I should have been more honest, but I was raised to see this as men's business, not something you involve your old lady in.
Am I the asshole?
I was born with glass bones and paper skin. Every morning I break my legs, and every afternoon I break my arms. At night, I lie awake in agony until my heart attacks put me to sleep. 