My husband is having an affair.
Her name is Bunnings Warehouse. She not only robs me of my time with my husband, she sucks our bank balance dry.
When marriage becomes legal to inanimate objects, I will prepare to say goodbye.
I’m sure I am not alone.
Doing my husbands tax this year, I entered in his receipts as per their dates. It appears he was there, oh 335 out of 365 days. Oh and if you needs some nuts or bolts, we are sure to be able to supply you with the goods as he gets some EVERY FUCKING TIME HE IS THERE.
Look even as a woman I see the allure of Bunnings. It has EVERYTHING. It’s a man’s idea of Heaven whilst the Myer Shoe department, his idea of hell.
I’m sure he wills the lightbulbs in our house to explode so he has a legitimate reason to trot off down the road to grab a replacement. And geez who doesn’t need 18 packets of concrete in the shed at any one particular time?
Bunnings is his crack and granted there are worse things he could be doing. Like having an actual affair for instance. Or doing actual crack.