Sex, Lies and Crucification

When it comes to punishment, I don’t possess the patience for rehabilitation and lack the self-control for judicious assessment. As an Old Testament type of gal, I embrace the idea of proportionate punishment – an eye for an eye – to satisfy the victim’s resentment, but lack the restraint to properly employ “proportionality,” which requires the level of punishment be scaled relative to the severity of the offending behavior. It takes a lot to satisfy my resentment. Accordingly, I’m an advocate for extreme, excessive and swift punishment. For example, a previous boyfriend asked me: “How do you feel knowing every girl in the room wants your boyfriend?” He followed that up by informing me I wasn’t universally pretty; I was lucky he found me attractive. I broke up with him and subsequently appeared in FHM magazine, in which I attacked and exposed his conflicting sexual and religious practices. My revenge is usually immediate and cruel. Unfortunately, I’m at a complete loss as to how to handle my latest transgressor. Anything less than torture by Spanish boot – a leather boot-like device drawn over the feet and legs, in which boiling water is poured over, eventually soaking through the leather and eating the flesh away from the entrapped limbs – seems insufficient.

Most recently my boyfriend used spyware to obtain the passwords to all my social networking and email accounts.

In response, I broke into his accounts and fired off some offensive messages on his behalf. With the expectation that he would retaliate, I changed all of my passwords except my MySpace password, thereby leaving him free to monitor any MySpace communication. Finally, I replied to Playboy’s inquiry for me to pose via MySpace. I informed them I would be honored to work with them and pose for their magazine.

My boyfriend had a panic attack, deleted the message and blocked Playboy.

I chastised him and for invading my privacy AGAIN, then packed my belongings and left to stay with my parents for the weekend, thereby giving him the opportunity to win me back via grand gesture.

Instead, he vanished. I received one call. At 3:33 AM. No message.

Suspicious of his lack of communication during our separation, I implemented a full-fledged investigation. My boyfriend claimed he spent the night from 8 PM until 3:30 AM at the Black Finn bar with his best friend, Chris. His best friend’s girlfriend assured me she spent the night with Chris. She and Chris never met up, saw or spoke with my boyfriend. After ascertaining he lied about his whereabouts and company, I broke into his facebook account again and followed up with our neighbor.

His Facebook account revealed messages to a female with the alias Rockin’ Robyn at 2:30 AM and 3:30 AM. He included his phone number and signed them “Big Kiss!”. Since normal people don’t use stage names on Facebook, I assumed she was a prostitute.

Our neighbor, Brian, offered more insight.

“Hi, Brian, lovely day, isn’t it?” I smiled.

“Yep. What’s up?” Brian crunched up his face and canvassed the area behind me with paranoid eyes.

“So, Brian… Have any strange girls been coming around?”

“Well, before you moved in, that,” he pointed to our front door, “looked like the entrance to a brothel.”

“Ok. Whatever. What about lately? Like within the last few months?”

“Oh boy… yeah… I mean, I shouldn’t say anything, but I kinda want my pants back,” he pulled at his left earlobe.

“Your pants?”

Brian informed me an intoxicated girl did indeed pound at my door at approximately 4 AM Mid-March. Her incessant pounding woke him up, so he asked her if she needed anything.

“Cocaine? Do you have any coke? Can I crash here?” she slurred, pushing past him into his house.

Brian informed her he did not have any cocaine. He then provided her with a cocktail and sweatpants. She took a swing, dropped the glass on his living room table, fell back on his couch, struggled out of her clothes and rolled around for a while in just a “g-string.”

“She was pretty trashy. I mean, I saw the broad naked... titties and all… and didn’t even know her name. Then she started bitching about your boyfriend and so I asked her why she was stopping by if he was such a jerk and she said because he’s a really good fuck.”

“She said that?”

“Yep.”

“Did you ever get her name?”

“Robyn. I went through her purse after she passed out. Do you think you can get my pants back for me?”

“Have you seen her before?”

“Oh man, I just really want my pants back!” He hesitated for three seconds then sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Girl used to come around weird hours. All the time… but before he started dating you.”

My exhaustive investigation revealed my boyfriend never met up with his best friend. Rather than sulk, send me flowers or do anything productive for our relationship, he spent his 48 hours of freedom getting blackout drunk, paying strippers to grind his cock and booty calling an old hook-up who has no problem disrobing in front of and spending the night with a total stranger. He does not deserve a clean break-up; he deserves to be crucified. Unfortunately, even though I firmly believe I could happily munch on popcorn while watching him suffer through hours of intermittent partial asphyxiation and searing pain as tissue tore from his lacerated back, I doubt I could handle the jail time sure to follow. I hate living with women, hate manual labor and hate any type of authority. What to do, what to do?

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Email me your ideas!

1. Set him up with Sarah C.?