Some girls are crazier than others, and I, apparently, fall somewhere along the “psychotic” range of crazy after what I did to one poor soul who had the unfortunate luck of pissing me off.
It all began during this year’s Super Bowl. I was working and my friend texted me asking if I was down for a party. I had an 8 a.m. the next day, but ya girl ain’t gonna turn down a good time and free alcohol, so I told her I’d be there after work. Essentially the only important part of the Super Bowl is the fact that I met my future fuckboy at this party. We’ll call him Tony because I’m not gonna put him on complete blast cause, well, I’ve caused him enough issues already.
Tony was one redneck-ass motherfucker and so, of course, there was nothing in the world he adored more than his truck. He put tons of time and several thousand dollars into that thing and he loved it more than he loved most of his family. Tony is not exactly what you call a “relationship” kinda guy. The only real girlfriend I know of that he’s had he ended up cheating on. This probably should’ve been a warning sign for me, like maybe I shouldn’t get too attached to a guy who clearly doesn’t want what I want. But of course, that didn’t happen.
So Tony and I had exchanged numbers and other info at this Super Bowl party and started texting and hanging out. Well, it had apparently flown right over my naive head that every single time I hung out with or spoke to Tony, he made his intentions with me extremely clear. He was not looking for a relationship or anything serious at all. I decided to look past these blatantly obvious signals he was sending and proceed to put too many of my eggs in his basket.
Tony’s graduation comes along and he tells me he’s having a party for it on the night of his graduation (it was in February because he went to a tech school). I went to his grad party, slept with him, and I assumed everything was great. My stupid brain even thought that maybe, just maybe, I could turn this fuckboy into a boyfriend!
Wrong. So wrong.
The next day one of our mutual friends texted me and asked if I was going to his party that night. I didn’t know about it but I assumed he would want me there (I’m an oblivious ass bitch) so I went.
As soon as I got there I noticed there was another girl all over him. I was furious, but I couldn’t show it. So instead of showing my emotions, I proceeded to drink them away. Because that works, right?
Wrong again.
I downed shot after shot and with every sip of alcohol I only became more upset with Tony. I was beyond obliterated and full of rage — not a great combination. I went outside and was crying like the bitch that I am when someone came up to me and told me Tony was in his room fucking the girl that I had seem all over him earlier. At this very moment, I was overcome by such blind rage that I took out my car key, walked over to his truck, and keyed his own name into his truck bed. Batshit crazy, party of one.
Right as I did this, he came walking down the driveway. Getting caught in the act caused me to sober up enough that I knew it was time to get my ass outta there, so I turned around, quickly grabbed my DD, and bolted to my car.
I found out later that the whole story about him fucking the other girl wasn’t true because he was getting home from the liquor store at the exact moment he caught me in the act, but the damage was already done.
About a week after that he texted me the price that it would cost to get the scratch fixed. I’ll have you know that scratch was tiny and I didn’t ask for a real quote from a repair shop — I just went with his word and handed over 600 fucking dollars.
Needless to say, he got the scratch fixed and I never spoke to him again, and now he moved to a different state (possibly to escape my crazy ass).
Take a lesson from me, ladies: keying trucks is only cool and badass when Carrie Underwood does it. For the rest of us, it’s just a lot of humiliation and money..
Nice Move108
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