Prologue

Sick of life.

That is how Connie would describe it. After ten million times of asking children to do something, seven thousand bajillion fights with her husband, fourteen hundred of which was fought over lack of funds in the bank alone, she was tired.

Tired bagged under her eyes, tired coursed in her veins, tired dogged her footsteps. At 37, she thought, a woman should not be so TIRED. But nevertheless she was...

And Mark pestering her for sex once again did not help. "What am I, Linda Lovelace?" she would often wonder to herself. Her libido was in the toilet. Along with all the rest of her. It wasn't fair....