My shitty Valentine

14 Feb

Throwback insert-day-of-the-week-here

When I was twenty-three (back in the stone age) I used to date an old man; he was thirty-eight (therefore born shortly after the Big Bang). This piece of shit decided to dump me on Valentine’s Day. Back then, I hadn’t yet learned the reflex to scoff with cynical detachment at this “holiday” which I now see for what it is: a ploy to pack restaurants on a week night and sell chocolate and red lace lingerie.

Back to the dark ages, I was understandably devastated. Getting dumped hurts, and getting dumped on Valentine’s Day only adds insult to injury. so I was home (I lived in England back then), licking my wounds, swearing off men and toying with the idea of making a voodoo doll in the resemblance of my brand new ex. That’s when a new piece of information was brought to me; I hadn’t just gotten dumped on Valentine’s Day; I’d gotten dumped on Valentine’s Day FOR A FIFTEEN YEARS OLD. That filthy perv.

I saw red. Not cheesy Valentine’s-Day-heart-shaped-chocolate-box red; blood red. Apparently, I was too old for this particular thirty-eight years old teenager. At the ripe old age of twenty-three, I had been dumped for a younger woman.
Thankfully for my sanity, by then, anger had superseded sadness.
So I did what any extremely pissed off very newly single gal living in England would do: I grabbed my best friend by the sleeve and hit the pub with a vengeance.
Then another pub.
Then another.
Then an… Wait. That’s his car. The piece of shit’s car. The old perv’s car. Here, Parked right outside the pub. With no one in sight.

A lightbulb went on. Revenge. I had a real good idea for a real shitty revenge. Quite literally. But I needed props. Or more precisely, *a* prop.

I needed poop.

You see where I’m going with this?

We walk in the pub. POS isn’t here. But what *is* here, however, is a dog. My best friend, who confirmed that night that he was indeed my best friend, because only the best of friends will endorse your stupidest ideas slipped in my ear that “Hey, this dog must shit”.

Indeed. In the small outdoor passageway between the front and the back of the pub, there was a large fresh dog turd. Perfect. I put in a plastic bag, went back outside, looked right, looked left; perfect time for a perfect crime. I smeared dog shit all over the windshield of his BMW. Thick enough that there was no way he could drive without cleaning it up first.
Here’s a nice ending to your Valentine’s date with your little teenage girlfriend, asshole.

Maybe I read too many Greek tragedies, but revenge felt hella GOOD. To this day, I still have no regret.

Somehow, he found out it was me. Maybe I wasn’t as alone as I thought I was when I did the deed. Maybe someone saw me from the pub’s window. Don’t know. Don’t care.
Shortly afterwards, he confronted me about it. I denied.

Back then, I lived in Norwich. Later, I moved to London. But on one of my occasional visits back to Norwich, I learned some interesting tidbit about him. As in, he was in prison for pimping underage prostitutes.
I call it karma.

The moral of this story is: guys, don’t dump your girlfriend on Valentine’s Day. Because karma’s a bitch. And she’s an even bigger bitch on February 14th.

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone!


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