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The Stories...
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Love Stinks. Sometimes we get dumped.
: submit your own
Double Dump
by Queen of the dumped
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Sisters by marriage at the age of 8, we bonded instantly. Each of us from broken homes and only one year apart in age, we shared everything. Only seeing each other weekends and holidays did not affect our connection. By the time we were teens, both of us had developed very different personalities. I was the wild one, trying everything, being totally rebellious. Ali was conservative, and obedient to our parents. The worst thing she ever did in her life was smash my Black Sabbath album. I was the aggressive, hard-core rocker and she was the Partridge Family. Happy, happy, happy, all sunshine and roses, sick chick, yes indeed.
Our relationship began to lose its luster when she fell for her long time boyfriend. They dated from age 13 until after high school. While I was running away from home, cavorting around the country and being a free spirit; Ali was planning her wedding to the only man she had ever dated. He was her total focus. They were inseparable. Hell, their names even rhymed. It was disgusting. The wedding was perfect, just like Ali and her life. It seemed nothing could touch them. They did well and moved to the country club. Lived the perfect life and were beautiful people. Especially Ali, she was a beautiful person inside and out. Always helping others and rarely doing anything for herself, Ali was one of those women that usually make me want to vomit. If I didn’t love her so much, it would have been easy to just hate how perfect she was. The man of her dreams treated her like she was the only woman on earth. They were the kind of couple that you see in public and just want to gag because it’s so sweet.
After several failed relationships, I married. It seemed that I was becoming like her. Yuck, but I was actually enjoying myself. Had two kids, she adored them. Ali could not have children so she doted on mine. We shared our lives. Something happened to us, I’m still not sure what changed things. Both of us caught up in our own lives, we became distant. Ali rarely talked to me and never mentioned the fun things she used to bubble about. Yes, she bubbled, nauseating isn’t it? But I loved her anyway. You just couldn’t help it; she was that kind of person.
One fine July 4th weekend, I got a call that Ali had been killed in a car accident. Her husband was driving and had not been injured. Graphic details of his trying to save her by doing CPR at the scene were given to me in detail. I was devastated. It had only been a week since we had talked about her getting out more. She was going to the beach with some girlfriends and was talking about partying. Ali partying? I should have known something was amiss.
The second phone call came only 24 hours later. It seems that Ali was not killed in the car accident. In fact, the man of her dreams had murdered her, put her in the car and caused the accident to cover his dirty deed. Stunned, I looked for my husband to lend some support. He was gone. We were on vacation at the beach with family and friends. Everyone was looking for him and had started to get worried for his safety. Around 3am, he slinked back to our cottage. Surprised to find me awake, he proceeds to tell me he didn’t want to be married anymore. He was feeling trapped and just couldn’t be married. Of course, my next question was “who are you f*cking”. He lied and said no one.
It was then I told him the graphic story of how Ali’s husband had taken a hammer from the garage and bashed her head in at the kitchen table. His supportive statement was “holy shit”. Ali’s husband was very angry that she was going away for the weekend with some girls and decided to just get rid of her. Strange, very strange. Needless to say, I was very twisted up inside. I decided to come home to deal with all the days’ events. Needed to shop for coffins anyway. Damn, you never have one of those things around when you need one. Left without my husband, he decided to go fishing instead. Well I had to admit, shopping for funerals isn’t much fun. He never was much of a shopper anyway.
Having found the perfect funeral outfit and farmed the kids out to friends, I was ready to leave for my hometown. Only one thing holding me back, my husband wasn’t home yet. It had been well over 12 hours since he said he would be home and no one had heard from him. Given all the shit that was going on, I immediately assumed the worst, dead on the road somewhere. None of the hospitals or highway patrol had any information, so I started driving toward the beach. Thinking I would find the remains of his car or some sign of his demise, I continued to call his cell phone. Finally, an answer, he says, “we have to talk”. Well, duh.
I met him at a hotel halfway between home and the beach. There, on the day before my sister’s funeral, he proceeds to tell me he’s found the woman of his dreams and wants to continue to see her. WTF, I thought I was the woman of his dreams. No, I’m not senile; I do remember him saying that to me. He didn’t ask for a divorce; the asshole wanted to have both of us. Since I enjoy a little demented pleasure, I entertained the idea for about half a second then went into bitch mode. That’s me, from hurt to bitch in less than a second. Of course he wanted both of us, I made the money and kept the house, she had a rotor pussy and blonde hair. Did I mention I detest blondes now? Especially those who look like Barbie.
So there you are. I didn’t go to the funeral. I didn’t stay married to the insensitive, narcissistic, lying creep. Ali’s husband is serving life in prison for pre-meditated murder. And yes, I do hope his cellmates are large, horny, aggressive men with disease. Who me bitter, twisted? Hell yes and I enjoy it! But my baggage is well packed and through the years since that twisted weekend, I have even added a few things to that baggage. Before I die, I’ll bet I’ll have a steamer trunk. Luckily, I’m a good packer and I do love a good adventure with lots of risks.
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