Yes. It's Gone.

My story begins three years ago, but really, there is a prologue.  There was a guy I knew sophomore year.  He was your typical Miami U of Ohio a-hole (and I say this not only because I hooked up with him, but because he just was).  One day, he met a girl that he really liked.  He fell hard and fast for this girl, which was funny because I really didn't think he was capable of any emotion outside of himself.  Well, the girl- cute and nice as she was- decided to mess around with her ex-boyfriend.  Things happened, stuff transpired... and the result was a marvelous little website with her picture and the guy's voice repeating "You are a slut... slut... slut" along with, I believe, recorded voicemails from the girl (who was understandably angry).  I mention this because, as funny as it was, the whole thing was a pretty petty act of a-holeness at its best.  I could never see my self stooping so low.  Cut to yesterday afternoon around 1:30 and me literally stealing my ex-boyfriend's hat off of his dining room table.  Pretty low and desperate, yes?  So here's my story:

John and I met through his sister.  I had left Miami U and while I was on break from Kent State, I didn't really have many friends, let alone a serious love interest. He didn't say a lot and that made me crazy about him.  One night, we discussed my plans to move to Texas (which never happened).  He was sweet, endearing, and clueless.  It wasn't long before we couldn't get enough of each other and I spent my summer days by his side.  Helping him when he didn't have a car, taking him out when he didn't have money. We went through it all together, side by side.  We were on again and off again.  We had tremendous fights and crazy make-up sex afterwards.  After three years, we knew our hearts just couldn't take it and, after one more failed attempt, swore we would be best friends.

There were flings with others for me and I told him I wouldn't care if he met someone special, just as long as I was in his life still.  Enter the Bitch.  Or, and I don't use this term lightly, the Fucking Cunt Of a Girlfriend (or, FCOG), seen here in an artist's rendering.  At first, she seemed sweet and he seemed to really like her.  I won't get into details about her (because children are involved) but let's just say that she had some responsibilities that required being close to a small version of a person a lot.  I pointed this out to him and warned him that she will always have this responsibility and he will have to man up or get out.  "Don't lead on a single mother," I told him.  And then came the phone call.

"I would appreciate you not hanging out with my boyfriend anymore because he isn't yours and I don't know what you are fucking saying to him, but get over it.  Have fun!"- voicemail.

It might have been her voice, all slurred and irresponsible-drunk-motherish, it may have been the fact that she was TELLING me what to do, not asking.  It also may have been the fact that she was CALLING ME.  MY PHONE.  

To say I snapped would be nice.  I won't go into the gorey details, but I think it involved screaming, throwing my phone, my sister going off on John, and a whole lot of other stuff I'm not proud of.

Well,  cut to the next day.  I had to get a new phone because 1. this bitch was not going to call me again and 2. I didn't want to be on John's plan anymore.  Which meant that I had to return my old phone to him.  Of course between calmly purchasing a new one at Sprint and driving to his house to drop it off, I received a barrage of texts and insulting voicemails once again directed at me.  Ooookay?  Not from him either.  From the FCOG.  

I couldn't believe it, my best friend in the whole world had decided to throw everything out that we had for this.  

"You're acting really childish." text from FCOG

I think that was my tipping point.  And then, without thinking, I took it.  The door was open, it was right there.  

Do I condone stealing? NO.  Would I suggest that anyone do that? HELL NO.  I think it was a mistake and a crazy decision on my part but, you know what? I don't care.  When he wants to be a man and not a pussy-whipped version of his former self, he knows the number.

Until then, I will be maintaining this blog as a record of the events to come.  They are for entertainment value, but also I hope to teach other crazy girls like me a lesson.  Do as I say, not as I do.  Trust me, this whole thing should come with a disclaimer.

Until next time, mis amigas locas, see ya.