Story of My Life (Pt. 2)

Posted on November 23, 2016


The other night, that twenty-three year old had the balls to do something ballsy: He went to his former chick friend’s apartment to talk to her. It was a completely impulsive decision, yet it took a good amount of courage to sum up. Isn’t that something? He had to summon up the courage to talk to someone he used to consider a friend. A good friend at that. What is this world coming to?

Well, it’s more like his world, but you know…


A couple scenarios played out in his mind as he sat in his car, feeling like a creep; knowing it wasn’t a good idea.

Scenario One: She wouldn’t answer the door, and just let him stand there until he went away.

Scenario Two: She would tell him to go away and (possibly), tell him she would call the cops.

Scenario Three: Someone else, most likely a guy, would answer the door for her.

Scenario Four: She would answer the door, and they would talk things out like two grown ass adults.

Which scenario do you think happened? I’ll give you a minute to figure it out.

[Sips his coffee]

Those damn stage directions again!


Oh, right!

Scenario Three! A guy answered the door for her! And not just any guy, but guess who? Drum roll please!

[Plays drum roll sound bit]

Yep! You guessed it! Her ex-boyfriend! Pretty fucked up, isn’t it? She not only shit all over their friendship, but she rubbed it in as well!

O.K., that’s kinda’ gross, but you get the idea. She put salt and lemon on the wound, and then stabbed it again. What a fuckin’ bitch, right? I feel for this guy. He may not be Brad Pitt, but Goddamn!

So her ex-boyfriend gives him a look that says: “What the fuck are you doing here?” But what actually comes out of his pipsqueak mouth is: “Yes?”

“Is Char(Lyingcuntfuckingwhorenobetterthanhermama)lotte home?”

“Yeah. She’s in the bathroom.”

(Figure it out, genius) “Can I talk to her?”

Her boyfriend’s (ex?) face twists into what looks like confusion. She trained him well, I’ll give her that. He doesn’t seem to take commands from anyone but his Mas(Cunt)ter.

“I don’t think so, but I’ll ask her.” And he shuts the door. Realization sweeps over this twenty-three old. He didn’t recognize him at first, but after laying eyes on him long enough, he knew it was her ex. He started to walk away, as it dawned on him why (potentially) she wasn’t talking to him anymore. Cause of him. So at this point, he doesn’t even want to talk to her anymore. But then the door opened, and he rushed back over.

It was him again.

“She’s not available to talk.” And he gives a half shrug, like these things happen.

What?! Not available?! Why the fuck not?! Cause she’s too busy taking a pregnancy test, trying to find out if she’s going to have a kid who isn’t going to know the father cause she’s a fucking whore?!

But I digress. His real response was: “Oh. Okay.” And he walked away. But don’t get him wrong. He’s not that dumb. He knew in reality that she was either standing behind the door, peeking through the peephole, standing behind her (ex?) boyfriend, or standing all the way on the other side of the apartment hiding, like the fucking coward she is.

Ironically, he felt sort of elated after having gone through that experience. He was depressed, sure. But now he realized how low she had gone. She fell off the pedestal he built for her in his mind. After eight years of knowing her, she was just another bitch.

And he was just another cock she rode off.

That’s all their existences meant to each other now.

Eight years, for nothing.

To be continued, folks…



Posted in: Essays, Memoirs, Series