Investigation Discovery’s documentary special Bad Henry profiles serial killer Henry Louis Wallace.
Ya’ll I just watched this documentary and WOW – CRAZY! And incredibly heartbreaking. This all went down in East Charlotte (an area I am extremely familiar with) and all I can say is that the utter incompetence of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department is a massive mind fuck. Unlike the garden variety serial killer who murders strangers, Henry Wallace knew all of his victims either through work (he was a manager at Taco Bell – he supervised most of his victims) or his girlfriend (who was friends with many of his victims). He filed missing person reports on some of the victims, and even attended their funerals.
You can watch the Bad Henry documentary on the ID Channel.
One of the North Carolina’s most notorious serial killers was a manager at a local Taco Bell. Henry Louis Wallace’s first victim was Sharon Nance, a prostitute he killed and dumped by the railroad tracks in May 1992. On March 13, 1994, Wallace was arrested and confessed to the murders of 10 women to Detective Garry McFadden, the only African American on the homicide squad at the time, and his team at the Charlotte-Mecklenburg police department. Investigation Discovery will tell the story in Bad Henry, the story of “Bad” Henry Louis Wallace. SEE RELATED The Unsolved Series on ID Will Put Cold Cases To RestInside The Many Murders of Serial Killer Ed Edwards
“The complete story of Henry Louis Wallace and the panic he unleashed in the city of Charlotte has never been told on television before,” says Henry Schleiff Group President of Investigation Discovery, Travel Channel, Destination America and American Heroes Channel. “Bad Henry showcases the fearless tenacity of Garry McFadden and his team in their efforts to capture this killer, providing justice, and most importantly, closure to the victims and their families.”
Charlotte in the 1990s was a “a city divided by racial tension, rampant gang violence and a crack epidemic that brought the murder count to new heights,” according to the statement. “But, beneath the surface lurked an even greater threat. A monster by the name of Henry Louis Wallace was stalking his prey and murdering at will: his target – ten young African American women.”
The city was caught in the crack epidemic of the early 90s and widespread violence, drugs and murder reached pandemic levels. In the midst of this Young, African American women were being found raped and strangled to death across the city. The crime scenes were different. The victims had no apparent relation. The deaths were scattered in time and location. The Charlotte-Mecklenburg police department only had nine homicide detectives on the force. McFadden’s team only had one partial print and a grainy photograph to work with. In spite of “an insurmountable workload and not enough hours in the day to solve these cases” they came across a pattern.
The series shows how the officers were able connect the dots and apprehend Henry Louis Wallace in association with the murders. This series will feature interrogation footage of “this ruthless killer, who calmly recounted the horrific murders of his victims.”
Wallace describes to detectives “in vivid detail the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’ of his murder spree; claiming he would often visit victims’ families, sometimes at their funerals, to offer condolences and support.”
Featuring “never-before-heard interrogation tapes and tales of devastation from those left behind,” Bad Henry “connects with the family members of the victims who candidly reveal the emotional turmoil they had to endure during Wallace’s two-year reign of terror. The relief they gained when they knew the killer had been captured, and justice served, not only provided closure to those involved, but to a city that has never been the same since.”
Malignant narcissism is a psychological syndrome comprising an extreme mix of narcissism, antisocial behavior, aggression, and sadism.Grandiose, and always ready to raise hostility levels, the malignant narcissist undermines families and organizations in which they are involved, and dehumanizes the people with whom they associate.
My batshit sister was living in St. Louis with a boyfriend and their pup, Deanie. Boyfriend, having weathered more than enough of sister’s instability, packed up and moved back to Cali. Without Deanie or the sister. So the poor dog got stuck with the Batshit.
Deanie was a truly gorgeous dog. Huge, she was, with the lean, muscular body of a Greyhound and the spotted coat of a Dalmatian. She wasn’t the smartest canine in the world, but she was very sweet. She tried to be. Unfortunately, my sister was severely abusive to her so the sweetness got buried down deep.
I realized this the first time I met Deanie – when I picked her up from the airport, several hours ahead of my sister’s flight. I was in the cargo area, staring at a tiny dog carrier, wondering where in hell Deanie was. The cargo guy waved me over, telling me “She’s in this crate, but it’s too heavy – I can’t lift it.” I thought he was lying – no way could a 50 pound dog fit in a crate designed for a Chihuahua. I walked over to the carrier and sure enough, Deanie had literally been stuffed into it. Her face was all smashed up against the grating. She was marinating in her own body fluids. Ya’ll, it was bad.
I popped opened the crate and was sickened by what I saw. Blood was oozing from her eyes and nose. She was wobbly, could barely stand and her back was completely hunched over. She was only 9 months old and starving. Her rib cage was sticking out (I later learned that my sister was only feeding her a quarter can of dog food a day, period.) I leashed her, coaxed her into my car and drove to my mother’s house, where Deanie and Batshit would be staying.
At mom’s, I let Deanie loose in the backyard. It took awhile, but eventually she was walking as normal as possible, despite her humped back. All was good until later that night, when Batshit arrived.
“Oh my God!” she screamed upon seeing her dog happily romping outside. Shaken, she burst into tears, grabbed Deanie and shoved her back in her crate. My mother immediately began apologizing to Batshit, blaming me for the infraction. After all it was me who did the awful no good deed of letting a dog do what a dog does.
It’s called batshit for a reason, ya’ll.
Thing is – drama always ramped up a notch when the three of us were together. My mother treated me one way, my sister another. Scapegoat & Golden Child. One could do no right, the other could do no wrong – even in the face of all that is illogical, irrational and nonsensical – the roles remained the same: Me bad / her good. Separately, my mother was barely tolerable – but the three of us together? Having my toenails yanked out with pliers would be more preferable.
So as Batshit was was being comforted and coddled by mom, I left. Broke my heart leaving Deanie behind – but I had no choice.
The following day, Batshit called me, asking if I’d keep Deanie for a few months while she looked for a larger apartment for them in St. Louis. Against my better judgement, and because I am, at my core, an animal lover, I agreed. Sure, why not. Give this gorgeous pup a real life, you know?
So I’m back at mom’s to pick up the dog. True to her nature, Batshit burst into another round of hysterics. “Promise me you’ll keep her in her crate!” she cried.
“Oh fuck no” says me. “I’m not taking the crate”.
She turns to mom “I don’t want Deanie catching any diseases! You don’t understand, she can’t be outside! She could die! She has to stay in her crate!”
Then mom starts in on me. “Denise! This is your sister’s dog and you will do as she says, understand? She knows what’s best for Deanie!”
I know, right?
So I’m standing there, leash in hand, trying to calm a shaky, hunched up, half starved terrified dog while the Batshits scream at me about “proper care” for her.
“Fine, give me the crate.”
Halfway home, I dumped the crate in an empty parking lot.
Sadly, things did not go well for Deanie and me. I already had a dog and the two of them were not feeling each other, at all. Deanie was skittish, snappy & antagonistic. Red (my three legged mutt) was an alpha and doing his best to let her know her place in the pack – they fought all the time. Also turns out that, though no big surprise, my sister had neglected to house train Deanie – she was crapping all over the place. Constantly. I tried everything to break her of it – nothing worked. On the flip side, Deanie put on weight and after spending endless hours running free in the yard, the park, the hills when we’d go hiking – her spine straightened out. She was gorgeous. Still, I believed then (as I do now) that she was so damaged and confused by my sister’s cruelty and abuse – the poor pup had no idea what she was doing, or why, or how to correct it.
After about four months of this – Batshit called to tell me she had no intention of ever taking Deanie back. She even laughed, saying “She’s all yours now”.
Cool, said I. “I’ll find another home for her“.
Batshit went, well, batshit. Lost her mind and started screaming “She’s my dog and you will not give her away!”
Then she called our mother, who called me, screaming that I’d better not give Deanie away.
Then she called our grandmother, who called me, screaming that I’d better not give Deanie away.
Then she got a few acquaintances (she has no friends) in St. Lou to call me, screaming that I’d better not give Deanie away.
She even called a few of my exes (cause she has none of her own) who called me, telling me I had no right to give Deanie away.
Know what? 1- Not one of those sorry motherfucking flying monkeys offered to take Deanie or 2) considered the hypocrisy of Batshit physically abusing her dog, jamming her in a crate, shipping her half way across the country, and abandoning her.
That’s how good Batshit is at faking emotional breakdowns.
My response to them?
Fuck all ya’ll bitches.
I placed an ad that day and the very next morning, a young, athletic guy showed up in an open top Jeep. Swear, he looked like an ad out of an Australian Outback travel magazine – brawny, muscular, free wheeling. We sat. We chatted. I told him all about Deanie’s history of abuse and big heart. Deanie, meanwhile, was all over this guy – tail wagging, licking his face, all kinds of happy barking. They say children and animals have an innate sense of the good (and evil) in people and I believe that with everything in me. It was a love fest, ya’ll. I asked him to please call me if things didn’t work out cause despite all her craziness – I loved that dog. Then I watched as Deanie jump into the passenger side of the jeep and rode off into the sunset with her new human.
He called a few week later, thanking me for Deanie. Best thing that ever happened to him, he told me. First time I’d ever heard the term “Road Dawg”. They did everything together – hiking, caving in the desert, camping on the beach. He owned a motorcycle shop and his customer’s loved coming in and seeing Deanie at his side. She was safe. Spoiled. And truly loved.
I rang my sister and told her all about Deanie’s successful adoption. You know, just to brighten her day. Guess what? She hopped on the first flight to mommy’s, calling me to announce that she’s “Back to reclaim her dog”.
Bawhahahaha! I hung up on her.
Barely three minutes passed when my mother called, screaming horrible things at me and threatening to take me to court over Deanie. Again, I hung up. My older sister called to tell me what a horrible person I was to kidnap Deanie, only to turn around have her euthanized. Hell she even had my grandmother calling me, telling me how heartbroken she was over my decision to kill Deanie.
THIS. IS. WHAT. TRIANGULATION. LOOKS. LIKE. With a nice dollop of smear campaigning to spice things up a bit. This is what my sister did to her dog, To me. And to everyone she lied too trying to shame me for finding a wonderful home for the dog she dumped.
So days later when she and our mother were banging on my door, demanding that I give them the address of Deanie’s new owner so they could take her back – I handed them the photo I’d taken of Deanie in the jeep with her new owner. She was healthy, glowing, tail wagging and most importantly of all – she was FREE. And very much loved.
They were livid. I told them I understood – it’s fucked up knowing your dog is happier without you. They ranted, raved, carried on, more threats and losing themselves in their hysterical accusations. I ended up grabbing a note pad and scrawling a fake address somewhere in Needles – a desert town some 200 miles away. “Fine. Here you go. Go get your dog back”.
Oh yes I did.
They never forgave me for that. Even better – they stopped speaking to me for a year! It was a really, really good year.
Only in a toxic family can you do the right thing, and be disowned for it.
I hate Valentine’s Day. I really do. I don’t get why we need a special day to celebrate our significant others. Cause we should be doing that everyday.
Look at all the chaos this one stupid day creates. Seriously. If you’re single, well, you’re just fucked. Made to feel even more alone than you were, yesterday. Sitting in the dark with 13 cats, chugging champagne straight outta the bottle and watching commercials jam packed with beautiful people falling in love all over the world. Bloody awful shit.
If you’re in a relationship, the expectations can, and often do, go off the rails. Yesterday at work I was getting damn tired of folks gabbing to each other about what their mates “better be getting them” for V day. You know, like a threat. He “better buy me this” he “better give me that“. Or hell would be paid.
When we moved south back in 1996, I wanted to see, smell, taste and experience all things southern. THIS is where all the shit went down, you know? Slavery. Civil War. Emancipation. Jim Crow. The Chitlin Circuit. Civil Rights Movement. Separate but (un)Equal. I wanted to drench myself in it, soak it up, really feel it down to my core. Half of my heritage blood is spilled all over southern ground – and yet I knew so little about any of it.
What I do know is this – my father was born in 1934. To a family of share croppers. In Marked Tree, Arkansas. On his 6th birthday he was given a sack and sent to the fields to pick cotton. He hated it. HATED. IT. My dad had a brilliant mind & restless soul – he was often whipped by my grandmother when she’d find him hunkered down in the rows, absorbed in a book. She punished out of fear, not cruelty – she knew nooseshad a way of finding the necks of smart, educated black boys. And my father was ALWAYS reading – escaping into worlds where his skin didn’t matter. He could be who ever, what ever, he wanted to be. Away from the sweltering fields. No lowering of his eyes and stepping off the sidewalk when white folks passed. No night riders burning crosses in the yard for kicks. None of that yessir, nosir bullshit.
He wanted out.
And got out he did. He was 14 and chatting with another 14 year old, who happened to be white. And female. When word of this lynchable offense reached my grandmother (who, at the time, was a mortician’s assistant) she talked her boss into driving my father up to Chicago – in the company hearse. Oh yes she did. By midnight, my teenage father was huddling in the back of a hearse on his way up north to live with people he didn’t know – cause he flirted/whistled/looked at a white girl. Or Not.
I mean Jesus fucking Christ.
This was in 1948 – seven years before Emmett Till was kidnapped, beaten, shot, barb wired to a 75 pound fan and thrown into the Tallahatchie River in Money, Mississippi. For whistling (or not?) at a white woman.
My grandmother was having none of that.
Way back when I was a kid, there was a chain of restaurants called Sambo’s. There was one in our neighborhood – we’d drive past it every day. But never, not once ever would my father take us there for meals. Which upset me because I really wanted to join the Sambo Tiger Club – and get a free mask.
The thing is – and this was the beginning of many frustrating years between my father and me – he never told me why. I knew nothing about the history of Little Black Sambo nor had I ever heard or read any of the children’s books Helen Bannerman wrote about him. I just knew my father bristled whenever Sambo’s was mentioned. He even changed the channel when the commercials came on -but that was probably to shut me up about the freakin Tiger Club.
My father never talked about blackface. He did talk about passing. He told me about Grandmother Elizabeth, a light skinned beauty, he’d say, with good hair. He told me about an older sister, Lily, tall, fair skinned with long black hair. Another sister, Tina, who was so often mistaken for white the townsfolk would stop and stare a when they walked down the street together. Passing was good, he told me. Lighter was better.
When I was ten, we moved from a lower middle class mixed neighborhood to an upper middle class white neighborhood. 5 miles away. That was my culture shock. I went from being a happy, well adjusted, smart & popular kid to a halfbred nigger loving social pariah. Over night. It was like word got out that a flock of niggers were descending & desecrating the block before we had a chance to unpack the first box. Our house was spray painted with “Niggers go home!”, swastikas and KKK. Snakes were shoved through the mail slot in the front door. Gasoline was poured all over the front lawn in an attempt, I guess, to set the house on fire – fortunately (or not) it only killed the grasss. Oh how I wished that house would have gone up on flames.
I wanted out.
The first day at my new school traumatized me. Really. I was not expecting, nor in any way prepared for all the ugly hatred coming at me. “Nigger” was the word of the day. Every. Fucking. Day. On the way to school. At school. On the way home from school. Nigger was my new name. Every. Fucking Day.
Okay that’s not entirely true – sometimes they’d switch it up with half breed. Cher sang a song about it – and she’s a unique, beautiful badass. So I was cool with that, actually. Half breed I am, then.
Until my father said I wasn’t.
I could not believe my father couldn’t see what was happening to me. How could he not? Or not protect me, from it? I wasn’t even sure how to tell him. I mean – he’d said nothing while white washing the house of the nasty slurs, swastika’s and KKK graffiti . Not a peep while grappling & bagging the snakes, later tossing them in an empty field. My dad was my hero when I was child. He really was. I adored him.
And all that came crashing down around me when I told him that, Every. Fucking. Day, I was being bullied for being black. His responses?
“You’re not black“.
“Whatever you’re doing to make them call you a nigger, stop it.“
“You’re not a halfbreed. That’s a derogatory word to describe someone who is half Indian and half Black.”
“If you think you’re a nigger, I feel sorry for you.“
Then he paper bagged me. Had me stick my hand in a lunch bag, then asked me “What’s darker, you or the bag?”
Me (utterly shredded, defeated and confused) “The bag”.
Him “Then you’re not black, are you?” Then he slipped his hand in the bag, saying “See? Neither am I”. Even though his skin was about four shades darker than the bag.
I’m ten years old. Being hated on Every. Fucking. Day. Of my life. For being half black. And here’s my black father, telling me he’s not black. That I’m doing something to bring all this horrible shit on me, and I deserved it. He was ashamed of me. Embarrassed by me. Disgusted with me. He drove his shame, anger and denial down deep into my psyche.
I never, ever brought it up again. But in a weird twisted way – I suppose I practiced Blackface, without the grease paint, to get through middle school. I smiled. Pretended to be happy. Pretended not to hear the racial slurs and taunts. Wanted my peers to like me. Accept me. Be comfortable, with me. Which is probably exactly how black actors in blackface felt, you know? Performing for people who hated them, and hating themselves, for it. I know I hated myself.
I didn’t know the history of Blackface until college. Seriously. It’s makeup. Dressup. Halloween. What’s the big deal?
The big deal is this – white audiences didn’t want to see black folks on stage – so white actors wore blackface to make them comfortable.
The origins of blackface date back to the minstrel shows of mid-19th century. White performers darkened their skin with polish and cork, put on tattered clothing and exaggerated their features to look stereotypically “black.” The first minstrel shows mimicked enslaved Africans on Southern plantations, depicting black people as lazy, ignorant, cowardly or hypersexual, according to the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture (NMAAHC).
The performances were intended to be funny to white audiences. But to the black community, they were demeaning and hurtful.One of the most popular blackface characters was “Jim Crow,” developed by performer and playwright Thomas Dartmouth Rice. As part of a traveling solo act, Rice wore a burnt-cork blackface mask and raggedy clothing, spoke in stereotypical black vernacular and performed a caricatured song and dance routine that he said he learned from a slave, according to the University of South Florida Library.
Minstrel shows were usually the only depiction of black life that white audiences saw. Presenting enslaved Africans as the butt of jokes desensitized white Americans to the horrors of slavery. The performances also promoted demeaning stereotypes of black people that helped confirm white people’s notions of superiority.”
By distorting the features and culture of African Americans—including their looks, language, dance, deportment and character—white Americans were able to codify whiteness across class and geopolitical lines as its antithesis,” NMAAHC says.
It’s been nearly 200 years since white performers first started painting their faces black to mock enslaved Africans in minstrel shows across the United States. It was racist and offensive then, and it’s still racist and offensive today.
Recently, one of the controversies erupting over blackface is a 1980’s photo in Virginia Gov. Ralph Northam’s medical school yearbook. It shows one person in blackface and another dressed as a member of the Ku Klux Klan. At first Northam said yes, that’s him in the photo, and he apologized profusely, for it. Days later, he retracted the apology, saying that was not him in the photo.
Then, in a move that is nothing short of mind boggling, he jammed his foot all the way in his mouth by declaring that he knew it wasn’t him in the photo cause back in 1984, he was trying to be Michael Jackson – with the glove, the shoes, the sparkle and the moon dance. Oh and a tiny bit of shoe polish.
Shoe polish? To be Michael Jackson? The massively talented black megastar who wanted to be a white woman?
Dude STOP. Just STOP.
And here’s the thing – even though I’m not the kind of person who looks for things that may or may not be there – over the years I’ve developed my own weird sense of blackface boycott. Like – I have never seen a Madea movie. Not a single one. And I think Tyler Perry is a genius. I really do. But the stereotypical loud, vengeful, Ebonics speaking black woman is not representative of who I am, or the beautiful black women in my life.
And ya’ll I love LOVE LOVE Nina Simone, yet of all the amazing black actresses in Hollywood, Zoe Saladana (in blackface!!!) was chosen to portray her on screen? The hell? WHY???? Nina was the voice of Civil Rights, writing songs like “Mississippi Goddam,” “Young, Gifted and Black” and “Four Women.” She LIVED the struggle. “I can’t be white” she jotted in her journal, “I’m the kind of colored girl who looks like everything white people despise or have been taught to despise. I’m a girl in front of the public all the time, wide open for them to jeer and approve of or disapprove of.” I’ve got nothing against Zoe. But I couldn’t go there, ya’ll. Couldn’t watch it.
So outta the blue, a co-worker says to me “I see you finally changed your last name”.
Yeah, six months after the fact – deed is done, I joked. Ha ha.
She was not amused. Cause she said “Clearly the name change is very important to Malcolm. You? Not so much. You two aren’t speaking the same love language. For the sake of your marriage, I suggest you learn each other’s love language.”
Love Language? Le français n’est-il pas la langue de l’amour?
I didn’t remind her that she’s never met my husband so she has no idea what she’s talking about. Bloody hell she doesn’t know me like that – yet here she is, careening down the rabbit hole – and dragging me with her.
“Denise,” she went on, “There are 5 different love languages. If you don’t speak his, and he doesn’t understand yours, your marriage is already doomed”.
“I appreciate that” I lied, “But we’ve been together since 1984 so – I think we’ve got the language thing down. We’re good”. Cause, you know, the last thing I’m doing is taking advice from someone who’s second marriage is wobbling precariously off the edge of madness.
Oh Lordy. Here come’s the snark.
“Do you ever stop to think about why it took you 34 years to finally marry the man, hmm?”
Oh for fucks sake she went there.
Causeeventually everybody goes there. This waiting forever to jump the broom makes no sense to some folks. I don’t know why. It’s one of those things I’d never lose sleep over, you know? You waited half a century? Two days? An hour? Rock on you badass!!! But me? I’m some kinda freak (okay maybe I am but that’s totally beside the point) to have waited soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo long?
Reasons I waited to marry my soulmate
1- We spent a lot of the early years fighting, making up, fighting some more, making up, breaking up, making up, separating, getting back together. In other words – we were both immature dolts who had no idea what in hell we were doing.
2- No way was I marrying ANYONE while my toxic parents were still living. Seriously. I wouldn’t zip tie that brand of hell on anyone – especially Malcolm.
3- As a single mom – I was determined to complete my education and land a cush job. No way was I going into marriage without a way out. Ever. Ever ever.
4- I had to get over my deeply entrenched beliefs that marriage is slavery – a legal way of owning someone else. I fought hard & bitterly for independence from my shitty family – I wasn’t about to hand it over to somebody else. Granted, it took awhile but – I did, eventually, get over it.
5- I can’t come up with a 5. So let’s move on….
Curiosity got the best of me so I looked up this 5 Love Languages thing. I did. And I decided to take the quiz – with Malcolm. You know, just to see. There’s 30 pairs of statements and you choose the one that best describes you. I haven’t taken self help / awareness quizzes since I was 14 and going through puberty with my mom’s Cosmo magazines – What Your Favorite Thanksgiving Side Dish Says About Your Sex Life! Are These Real Kama Sutra Sex Positions or Nah? What Christmas Movie Should You Watch Based on Your Favorite Holiday Dessert? You know what I mean. Stupid shit.
The 5 Love Languages is a best selling book by Pastor & Marriage Counselor, Dr. Gary Chapman, who’s making a fortune telling folks how to be good to each other. Not saying that’s a bad thing – it’s not. Just sad that human decency and kindness has to be taught. Cause honestly? That’s all I really took away from my 10 minute research on the guy.
So what are the 5 love languages? The good doctor breaks them down like this:
l. Words of affirmation – using words to build up the other person. “Thanks for taking out the garbage.” Not – “It’s about time you took the garbage out. The flies were going to carry it out for you.”
2. Gifts – a gift says, “He was thinking about me. Look what he got for me.”
3. Acts of Service – Doing something for your spouse that you know they would like. Cooking a meal, washing dishes, vacuuming floors, are all acts of service.
4. Quality time – by which I mean, giving your spouse your undivided attention. Taking a walk together or sitting on the couch with the TV off – talking and listening.
5. Physical touch – holding hands, hugging, kissing, sexual intercourse, are all expressions of love.
Knowing that my hubby is loathe to any type of pop quiz involving relationships – the timing of this experiment was crucial. So I waited until we were in the car and on our way to the mall to spring it on him. You know, entrapment. Which I’m sure falls nowhere in the love language skills but anyway…….
Barely two questions in and Malcolm was already cringing. Seriously. He hates this kinda stuff, I know he hates this kinda stuff and it felt like we were losing ourselves in translation:
Statement: I feel loved when you give me practical help. Malcolm “What the fuck does that even mean? Practical help?”
Statement: I like to receive gifts from you. Malcolm “Is this a gold digger test?”
Statement: Your words of acceptance are important to me. Malcolm “What is this psycho babble bullshit?”
Statement: I value your praise and try to avoid your criticism. Malcolm “If this is the language of love, I’m illiterate”.
I knew we were 4 (me) & 5 (him) before asking the first question. That’s just who we are and have always been. We don’t need a test for that. Quality Time and Physical touch – we’re all about that. All the time. And that’s exactly what the results of quiz show.
The thing is, to me, anyway, just treat your partner the way you want to be treated. Have fun. Laugh, A lot. Keep the fights clean and the sex dirty. I mean really. It’s so simple.
Sometimes it just takes a really looooooong minute to get there……