At twenty years old, I finally learned a valuable lesson about pointing fingers: the second you point one at someone else, you have three pointing back at you. Nonetheless, I’m queen of pointing fingers. Especially when it comes to guys. If a guy I’m talking to doesn’t surprise me with pizza at least once a month or fails to tell me every 30 minutes how I could basically be Adriana Lima’s twin, then he’s a fucking crazy asshole. No ifs, ands, or buts.
Recently I broke up with my boyfriend of over a year because I found out he cheated on me with some skanky whore. When I told my crew right away everyone asked how I found out. My first response was to say “I just knew because of what a psychotic asshole he was,” but when I took a moment to think about how the events actually transpired, I realized that it’s probably me, in fact, who is the absolute psycho.
It all started about two months ago when I received a call from my (now ex) boyfriend Chad at about two in the afternoon on a Tuesday requesting that I pick him up from the local bar. Being the perfect (read: pushover) girlfriend that I was, I happily obliged. I walked into the bar to find him drinking vodka on the rocks by the pint glass, because what else would he be doing at 2 in the afternoon when he was skipping class. Like any flawless girlfriend I managed to carry my 6 foot tall boyfriend into my car, chauffeur his drunk ass home, and tuck him into bed.
That’s when his phone started vibrating.
Not once. Not twice. But three times.
I had always sworn I wouldn’t be that crazy girlfriend but as Chad lay passed out cold in my bed, I couldn’t resist. I peeked. Three messages from a girl who shall remain nameless.
Now you may wonder if I’m a normal creep or a psycho stalker on the internet. Well, I took a quiz, and I aced that bitch. I’m a 12/10. I should be working for the CIA. I could find someone’s social security number and mother’s maiden name just by looking at a picture of his dog on Facebook. I’m that level creep. Taking that into consideration, it should come as no surprise to you that within minutes I was able to easily figure out what sorority the bitch was in, what grade she was in, and where her hometown was (coincidentally the same hometown as my boyfriend). Suspicion rose.
Fast forward two weeks. Spring break had come and gone and although I hadn’t stumbled across any more messages (while I was deliberately checking his inbox behind his back) from the unnamed hoe, my guard was still up. I had to find out once and for all if Chad was boning Becky with the good hair. So I made a plan. A plan so brilliant, so psychotic, so crazed, that it just might work. Spoiler alert: it did. I faked an STD and blamed it on him to guilt trip him into a confession.
Step 1: Fake STD symptoms
Taking all the nasty symptoms we learned about in 8th grade sex ed into account, I knew some STDs would be harder to fake than others. That being said, herpes was definitely off the table. I settled for chlamydia. Symptoms of chlamydia include a burning sensation while peeing and bleeding during sex. For about two weeks every time I peed in front of Chad I would wince. As for the blood, I did the dirty with him on my period and swore to hell and back it wasn’t “that week” and had no idea what was going on.
Step 2: “Schedule” a doctor’s appointment
After having uterus pain, bleeding during sex, and painful pisses for about two weeks I asked Chad if he would drop me off at the doctor’s office to get whatever was causing me all this pain figured out. He solemnly obliged.
Step 3: The confrontation
Two days after my “doctor’s appointment,” I told Chad we needed to have a talk. By the look of fear in his eye, I could tell he thought I was knocked up, but a baby would have been a blessing compared to the insane theatrics to which he was about to fall victim.
“I have chlamydia,” I stated bluntly looking him in the eye.
His eyes widened. “You what?”
“I know I’ve only had sex with you so I couldn’t have gotten it elsewhere. I won’t be mad. I need you to be honest babe. Have you had sex with anyone else, specifically without a condom?” I gently prodded.
Silence.
“Chad, this is a big deal. It could affect my ability to have kids when I’m older. Pleaseeeee be honest with me,” I begged giving him my most innocent doe-eyed look.
“Oh my God, babe, I’m so sorry. It was just one time and only for a few seconds.. blah blah blah”
The rest of his apology was drowned out by an intense feeling welling up inside of me. Strangely enough, the feeling wasn’t rage. It was satisfaction. My plan had worked.
“You fucking idiot,” I said before calmly picking up my purse and walking out the door.
Some people might read this story and think the moral is to fake an STD to find out if your boyfriend is cheating. This, my friends, is not the true moral. The moral of this story is that at the end of the day it doesn’t matter if you hack his Facebook to read his DMs or go so far as to kill his dog. As long as you have “good reason,” any amount of crazy girlfriend psychopathy is always justifiable..
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