The evil villain of our tale has returned, Gentle Reader. Her superpowers consist of only letting you see her children as long as you are in love with her and being able to clean all of your possessions out of a house in four hours or less. We have already touched on the beginning of the relationship, so now let us delve into the demise. For starters, she was the most possessive and jealous creature I have ever ran across. In her mind, trivia night with the guys at Hooters meant I probably gang-banged the entire wait-staff (possibly even the cook.) I once asked her if I could have one night a month to hang out with my friends. Her reply was, "THAT often?" I'm not a werewolf. I shouldn't have to wait for a full moon to hang out with my friends. The rest of this story will be free of side-notes and my bullshit. It happened, as written, without commercial interruption.
After coming home late from a friend's bachelor party, everything went to shit. She was throwing shoes, insults, and any other debris she could lay her hands on. That was it for me, so I called my brother, packed a bag, told her I was leaving, said goodbye to the kids, and I left. I came back a few nights later just to talk. She was crying like her best pig just died, and I just wanted to get the fuck out of there. Apparently, my lack of emotion did NOT go unnoticed, because she suddenly whips out the 5-inch hunting knife I stole from my father to cut blunts with. In the midst of me realizing there is now a sharpened blade in my presence, she says, "I'm crying, now YOU'RE gonna cry!" Being a man who had never had a knife wielded in his face before, I did what any sane man would do. I shit myself first, shed a tear second, and ran for the fucking door third. Man, did I have my priorities fucked up on this one. Advice of the day: Door FIRST, gentlemen... Door first.
So after making my way to the door at a "gingerly" pace, apparently I got it open just wide enough to let what little bit of "It's gonna be okay" I had left inside me squeeze through and run up the road screaming. As I watch my courage barely squeak through the door, she shoulder-butts it closed. Oh, fuck me. Now she is waving that damn blade around like a three-time-repeat-champion Mexican knife-fighter, while questioning my intentions of leaving. "Where are you going?," were the exact words, if I remember them correctly (and I'm pretty sure I won't ever forget them.) After assuring her that I had NO intention of ever leaving her, I attempted to pick up the phone to call the police, Jesus, or anyone else that might be able to help. I heard no dial tone; All I heard was, "Put the phone down FUCKER!" And down the phone went. I might be a whore, but I'm not a dumb whore.
Somehow, after enough talking, I managed to escape this "Pit of Despair" alive. Multiple suicide threats later, she finally agreed to move on with her life. I only returned to that house once while she lived there. It was the creepiest day of my life. I went to get my personal things while she was at work. I eased the key in the lock the same way I eased the door open seconds later. Finding no psychopaths in the building, I tip-toed down the hallway to the bedroom, until I came face-to-face with a nightmare. What I found will give me chills until the day I die. What I saw on the bed was a man-shaped pile of things with a sheet thrown over them. It literally looked like a man sleeping under the sheet. Arms. Legs. Head. Body. The "man-shape" was actually made of my personal belongings. I'm not talking just clothes. We are talking watches, journals, awards from high school, etc. They were piled up and shaped so it looked like a man was laying under the sheet. All I could think was, "Please tell me she hasn't been spooning with this fucking thing."
After safely escaping with my belongings, and what was left of my sanity, I was on my way towards a divorce. I paid the rent on the house for three months so she could get her life on track. I was staying at my brother's house while she was apparently experimenting with how bad she could trash a rental house before I lost my deposit. The day I showed up to move back in, I noticed a couple things right off the bat. Number one...this fucking place was empty except for the mess that was left. It looked like nuclear fallout. Number two....She took EVERYTHING. I know what you are thinking, Gentle Reader. If she took some furniture, it was her right as a wife. I ain't talking fucking foot-stools and futons. She took the toilet paper off the rolls, ice-cube trays out of the freezer (yeah, I was kicking it poor-man-style then, but what kind of sick bitch takes the ice-cube trays), and although she did leave the last can of "Who-Hash", she even took the light bulbs out of the fixtures. She took all of the silverware and dishes, except for one spoon, one knife, one fork, and one plate. It inspired me to leave this message on my answering machine; "Sorry I can't come to the phone right now, but I'm busy washing my dish."
So no toilet paper, no ice cubes, and no lights, but I still had something, Gentle Reader. What I had was a dead hamster left laying in the middle of the freezer. Yeah, you read it right. Dead Hamster. Middle of freezer. Whiskey....Tango....Foxtrot? I also had a mattress that was left in the master bedroom. And on this mattress, she had written "MILES LOVES 'THE EX-WIFE' 4-EVER" in Sharpie, surrounded by a heart with our wedding date written underneath. Not She Loves Me, but I Love Her....For....Ever. On the underside of the mattress, where I wouldn't find it for six months. She also never got around to changing her last name while we were married. She waited until the divorce was under way to change it, because she "wanted to take part of me with her." So guys, the next time you start to get a little creeped out because your girl read a couple of your text messages, don't bother calling me with some sob story. I've seen worse.