I have been in a mood. You have no idea. But our girl {A} over here took a deep dive into the archives today, and I couldn’t figure out what she was looking for. Then she pulled up my birthday post from last year.
Thanks for remembering, girl. Of course I know you’ll never forget because I do believe it is the same date as your divorce papers. When your husband showed me the papers, I fucking almost busted out laughing because I knew exactly what happened.
See, kids, if I’ve not made this clear: 2024. What the hell happened? Well, I believe—and I can literally hear {D} say this—that {D} told her it was her fault that I was there because she wouldn’t get a divorce.
She then drives him to my home to break up with me. It’s a little exchange they’re doing. Seems logical, right? I’m not exactly sure why, after a decade and God knows how many women, I was the catalyst for this, but that is how it went down.
Obviously {D} broke up with me, right? Wrong. You are wrong. He started to, and then he got really emotional and was almost crying and told me how important I was to him. We ended up making out on my fucking patio, then he walked around the corner to where he parked the car with her and drove away.
Now here is the thing about this. He gives me a huge kiss, tells me how much he loves me while walking backwards half the way. His eyes are sparkling and he has this huge smile on his face. Listen, I fucking know this motherfucker. He was the cat with the fucking canary. He was so fucking proud of himself for somehow pulling that shit off. That man impressed himself that day.
The next day, I am back at his place fucking him like nothing happened.
So now it’s my birthday. And he bought these diamond earrings and a necklace that I never quite got because it was caught up in the apocalyptic mail. Then we went to Golden Steer and we sat at Frank Sinatra’s booth. I love Frank.
Now we are leaving for our 9:45 reservation, and he suddenly decides he is going to wear a kilt. If I’m guessing, {A}, that was what he got for Christmas, right? Wrong. Fucking. Tartan. Jesus fucking Christ on that one. However, this kilt has a little waist-purse thing. The opening of it doesn’t fit his phone. He kind of tries to put it in and says, “Oh, I’ll just leave my phone here.” And I’m like, damn, she has that bitch on Find My Location, huh? What a fucking pansy.
So anyways, we had dinner and whatnot, and then we are driving home. We are sitting at the light, and I will never forget this. I always did this thing where I would stroke the hair behind his ear while he drove. I am doing that and we are waiting for the light to turn left onto Sahara, and I say, “I am so sorry I accused you of cheating. I don’t know how I would feel if someone did that when I wasn’t, and I really am so sorry and I believe you. I won’t ask again.”
Oh my fucking God, the look on that man’s face. Oh dear God. I’ve never seen anything like it. He had no idea what to do in that moment.
Guys, hello. I fucking knew. Come the fuck on. I am many things, but stupid ain’t one of them. So when he took off to Georgia to see his daughter, who randomly moved very suddenly the next week, I knew what was actually going to be happening.
He told me I wasn’t allowed to text him because he was with his daughter. He is texting me at 1 in the morning and is like, “I have to go because I’m with my daughter.” So it would have been like 4 a.m. there, and I’m like, dude, are you in bed with your daughter? That shit is weird.
So guys, if you never remember another fucking thing I say, please keep this particular advice near and dear to your heart: If you have two girlfriends and you bring the out-of-town one to your home and tell the in-town one you’re going out of town, make sure you don’t forget that bitch has keys. Never forget that part. Ever.
So, this is how we rolled into the apocalypse. I talked to a girl at work and the shit show started. Now here we are.
And {A}, I have to say this. When your husband told me that you guys got back together and decided to give it one more try, I never had the heart to tell that man why.
So guys, tomorrow is my birthday. First time going out in a couple of years. Exciting shit. I believe I was just sobbing and filing legal papers last year.
I want presents. Lots of presents. First and foremost, of course, I ran out of unemployment and just had to beg my daddy for cash. And let me tell ya, he makes that just so fucking enjoyable. So gift cards? Cash? Anyone? No? Fuck me.
Okay, next ask:
What I want you to do is go to the comments at the bottom. I am going to ask my biggest questions and you just type it in and leave. You don’t have to submit it or anything like that—just type that shit in and go. I have, I think, one analytic tool that lets me see what you type without blocking it out from my view. That is a little iffy, so I might not see the answer if it decides to be a bitch. So it’s about 50/50 that I actually see it.
{A}: For the love of all things holy, tell me he faked a heart attack on the Fourth of July for you as well. Yes or no?
Todd: Friend or foe?
Burlington: Am I guessing correctly?
And finally, {D}: I know how to prove the memo, don’t I?
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