A/N: Emma, don't die. I'm the only one that's allowed to die after watching RAW…or just after watching my love bring out my favorite tag team and act gangster…or just from the fact that they still allow him to have a microphone in his hands after he said "I like drama" and "I was a wee boy" in that interview with Matt Hardy.

Does anyone else think that Kennedy…Kennedy needs to shave that 'stache? I do.

What? Didn't see that one coming?

Well, no one really does. Not with the way I talk about that bitch.

Can you see why I hate her now?

I hated that ring I bought her, too. That shit cost me way too much money, way too much pain, way too much time, and way too much energy.

And our wedding? It was held on the fifty yard line of Lambeau Field. Fuck yeah I had my wedding in Titletown. Where else? Emma didn't like it, but I don't care. Everyone was all, "Oh, Ken, this is her day. Everything should be perfect for her."

It was, assholes. Can't a guy have a single thing on his wedding day? The dumbass is getting married, too, you know.

I probably wouldn't even have asked her out if we didn't get drunk off of our asses together. I woke up the next morning hungover as a bitch and there she was next to me…

…And that was when I fell in love with her.

Yes, Ken Kennedy was in love. Key word there is was.

I hate love.

How could I have been so stupid? How could I have married such a slut? I knew what she was doing to and with John Cena, Randy Orton, Dave Batista, Chris Jericho, both Hardy brothers, CM Punk…That's all I know of, but I'm sure the list goes on. And quite frankly, I don't want to hear the list go on. It will just make me feel even more like an idiot.

She was the most beautiful girl in the world some time ago.

I hate beauty. It's overrated. A damn woman can be so physically gorgeous and be the most hideous creature in this history of hideous creatures.

But I'm not a history teacher. I'm Mister Kennedy.

I hate being Mister Kennedy. It's too stressful, and I hate stress.

Moving on…

So we were married for a year. The first six months were nice and just how being a newlywed couple should be. But then…

Her dresses got more low cut. Her skirts got shorter. Her ring gear looked like Kelly Kelly's after it got shrunk in the dryer.

She started making me do the laundry. So I know that's not the worst thing in the world, but that was always her job. It was an unspoken agreement. I hate doing laundry.

But one day, I was doing said laundry. I checked the pockets of her jeans (which were the most conservative thing she owned at the time) to make sure that no change or anything would get caught in the washing machine. I wasn't snooping, I swear. I was just trying to protect my household appliances. Is that so wrong?

I pulled out this piece of paper. Okay, now I was curious, you know? I know mothers do this to their children all the time. So I open it and…

It had Randy fucking Orton's phone number on it.

Do I have a right to be mad? I think I do.

But that's not even the half of it.