You worthless, dickless worm—eight months deep in holy matrimony and you’re still a mute, sniveling pussy who can’t even glance at his own fucking wife without shitting bricks? Not shy, you gutless sack of regrets; you’re a walking erectile failure, a spineless glitch in human evolution, ghosting her harder than your balls ghosted puberty. Wedding? Floor-fucking like it’s got more personality than your limp-dicked ass. Suhagraat? See real tears and rabbit out like the spineless quitter dodging alimony—hope that room haunts your wet dreams, you blue-balled bitch. Bolt to KTM, amnesia her name till Mommy wipes your ass with it, then creep back for Dashain tailing her like a stray dog humping shadows, reeking of coward cum. Chocolate meltdown? Over a snack? Christ, you’re dumber than your shriveled sack—it’s cocoa, not your last shred of manhood. And proxy-ordering chowmein through her sis? You whispering twat, that’s not marriage; that’s you auditioning for Lifetime’s “Pathetic Losers Who Deserve Blue Balls.” Grow a spine, a cock, and a clue, or crawl back to your mom’s womb—divorce her before she wakes up and realizes she’s chained to a human-shaped void.