It’s time for another Smart Bitch Contest, with a big super mega prize that will leave the winner screaming with ecstasy. So many other people ask for your most romantic story, how you met, how he proposed, how she proposed, where you swung from the monkey bars of Luuuuuurveâ„¢ but we here at Smart Bitches, we know the truth. Love hurts.
So, we want your worst breakup story. The bad, the ugly, the mouth-breathing troglodyte who broke your heart and stole your best skillet on the way out the door. Make us cry, make us laugh, make us cheer for your fortitude in the face of asshattery, but let’s hear the worst of the worst – bring it on.
The Rules
Contest begins now, and ends Friday, November 25. Yes, this is the day after Thanksgiving, wherein you gather around the table and give thanks that you are free of that lousy no good wanking bastard tool and then eat more than you thought possible.
Entries must be emailed to both candy @ smartbitchestrashybooks.com and sarah @ smartbitchestrashybooks.com.
Entries must be no more than 400 words in length.
Happily-ever-after and/or just-desserts revenge elements are welcomed, but not required.
Winners will be posted as soon after the closing deadline as possible, and will be voted on the following week by the Smart Bitchery (that’s y’all) by emailed vote.
Finally, all entries must be TRUE. This is a non-fiction contest, so while we won’t call your ex to verify the veracity of your sob story, you’re on the honor system not to embellish the sorry details.
To get you started, here are Candy’s and my worst breakup stories.
Sarah’s Story
Senior year of high school, I went out with this neighborhood guy whom I’ll call Bonehead. When I got in to college in South Carolina, and he got into a satellite school of the state university on a very small amount of financial aid, this caused quite a rift. He was most vocal about the fact that I’d abandoned him. We ran up a scary phone bill, but by the end of freshman year, something was different. He didn’t want to talk on the phone, or he just wasn’t home when I called.
School ended and I came home. When I went to his house, his mom greeted me with this weird expression on her face, and told me he wasn’t home. He eventually arrived, took me out on the porch, and proceeded to dump me with the reasoning that he was “too tired.â€
I ran home crying, and spent the next week crying literally every 20 minutes. Then, one afternoon I was walking the dog when one of his friends came up to me and said how sorry she was that we’d broken up. I sniffled a bit and was trying to think of something to say when she said, “And I can’t believe he got her pregnant.â€
Seems Bonehead was cheating on me with some girl from school. He was “tired†because his family and hers had been meeting for hours to discuss “What to Do.†He was going to have to marry her and have a baby.
I don’t cry in front of people as a rule, but I sat down on the grass in front of this girl and next to my dog and just sobbed. I felt so stupid, humiliated, and worthless.
Enter a friend of mine from high school, who got me a job at the camp his parents ran in West Virginia. I went away to camp to work that summer, and spent the bulk of the time getting over Bonehead. By the end of that summer, I was in a marvelously happy relationship with my friend from high school, who eventually became my Hubby and the father of our son, Freebird.
I didn’t see Bonehead again, and to this day, nothing comes up when I Google his name – and that is a sign of someone with no life to speak of.
Candy’s Story
My particular trauma didn’t really lie with the break-up itself, but events that happened shortly after. The memories alternately amuse and sting.
I lived with a guy for a couple of years, and while we were cohabiting, we decided to pool together our grocery money for the sake of convenience, and we agreed to use his account. Things went well at first, but after a while, he decided he didn’t love me any more. Some sturm und drang resulted, but we eventually calmed down and ended things rather amicably. We needed to move out, but he was broke, so I did him a favor and lent him some money to pay for his car insurance so he could concentrate on saving up for moving expenses.
No, my forehead doesn’t have “SUCKER” stamped on it. I’ve looked and looked.
Anyway, the night before I had an appointment to check out a few apartments, this guy—let’s just call him StripperFucker, OK?—sneaked out of the house. It was a Friday, and I was in the living room watching a DVD. I dozed off briefly, and when I woke up, he was gone. I just figured he’d gone to buy some smokes and would be back soon, and didn’t think too much about it, so I went to bed.
When I woke up, it was 1 a.m., and he still wasn’t home. Now I was REALLY worried. We’d broken up, sure, but he was still my friend, and he sometimes did stupid things like drive around drunk. I waited for him, feeling increasingly worried, until he stumbled into the house, reeking of cigarettes and alcohol. I reeled out the usual spiel: where were you, holy crap I was worried, etc.
He then told a series of really puzzling lies. He said:
– He went out drinking with some friends from work, and he hadn’t told me he was going out because his friends had called him at the very last minute. This was odd, because I was right next to the only phone in the house ALL NIGHT, and neither of us had a cellphone, and I didn’t hear it ring.
– He then went on to say that he didn’t tell me because he thought I was out of the house, and that he’d meant to write me a note so I wouldn’t worry about him, but he’d forgotten. However, there’s no way he could’ve left the house without walking right by the living room, and the TV would’ve been clearly audible—and my car was parked right next to his, so where the fuck did he think I went?
I was too tired to decipher all his bullshit and decided it didn’t matter; I figured he just didn’t want to tell me he was going out with the boys for whatever reason and left it at that.
So I woke up early on Saturday morning and did my usual rounds—blog hopped, checked e-mail, etc. It was right after payday, so I logged into our joint account to figure out our last joint grocery budget, and immediately noticed a series of withdrawals amounting to about $220 from an ATM on Columbia Blvd.
Being an enterprising little chippy, I Googled that address, and yup—Exotica International, a Gentlemen’s Club.
At this point, the motherfucker owed me about $550 in car insurance money and had whined about being broke and not having enough money to move out. Apparently, he had plenty of cash for naked strangers. I wasn’t just mad. My whole body clenched in fury.
I immediately went into the bedroom, shook him awake and confronted him with it. He was sheepish and somewhat apologetic but largely unrepentant, and I slammed out of the house screaming mad, gladder than ever that we’d broken up and that I would soon be away from him.
Things settled down, and we moved out without further incident. A couple of weeks after we moved out, StripperFucker sent me a check for a measly $50 to go towards the money he owed me. I was kind of puzzled at the small amount, but he told me it was because he wanted to play it safe the first month in the new place—make sure he had enough money to cover all the bills, etc. I shrugged and said “OK.” Then I got a call a few days later: Please don’t cash the check, he was really low on money, he’d mismanaged a couple of key things, etc.
Now, I’d had access to his account for ages. I knew exactly how much he was making. No matter how badly he’d mismanaged things, he should’ve been able to afford to pay me $50.
Long story short: I found out he’d spent over $450 on strippers that weekend.
I snapped, and told him he’d better have gotten a blowjob for that money. I mean, Jesus, the guy could’ve hired a hooker for that much.
And you know what? A few weeks after that, I found out that’s exactly what he’d bought with that money. So y’all, if you’re in Portland and looking for a blowjob from a stripper, the Sugar Shack on Lombard apparently has personnel who are willing and happy to oblige as long as you are willing to grossly overpay.
Anyway, to compound the drama, I found out he was dating and fucking a stripper. He claimed he was really conscientious about using protection, but I don’t think he knew that rubbers aren’t very effective barriers against HPV and herpes. I contemplated telling him this, but as my friend Anna told me, some kids just learn their lessons better the hard way.
I am going to like reading these. I used to regularly read “The Dick List” feature on the Disgruntled Housewives Web site, for some of the same reasons. (It’s not out of schadenfreude, really, it’s more like intense sympathy and identification.)
Now I feel like a real dork ‘cause I married the first guy I dated seriously. I don’t have any good break-up stories!
I have some decent “I came this close to walking out on you and filing for divorce” stories, but who doesn’t after three decades of marriage?
I’m like Darlene. No breakup stories here. Married the first guy I dated seriously.
I feel completely inadequate when my friends ask me dating advice. I send them all the Nick, instead.
Yeah, I’m with Darlene and Nicole. It’s completely embarrassing, but now I get to feel discriminated against! 😉 And exactly how does one NOT end that sentence with a preposition, I ask you.
*sniff* I feel so left out. I never had a relationship and now I can’t join the contest. 😉
well Sarah, if you come to the Upper Midwest, ending a sentence with a preposition is perfectly acceptable. 🙂
Maybe the next SB contest has to be wacky ways one has lost their virginity. Now that one I can enter.
Well, I’ll put in my horribly pathetic break up story but I don’t have anything on you guys. There’s a reason you guys are the reigning bitches after all!
Off to google the ex’s name. Never thought to do that. Maybe he is doing hard time for fraud or something minor but is being held in maximum security prison where the murderers are using him as their bitch. Yeah, that’s exactly what happened. I just know it.
CindyS
Damn. I googled mine and the bastard is living in Highland Park, in Dallas. You gotta be pretty close to stinkin’ rich to live in HP.
No doubt, he married money and is now the henpecked, p-whipped slave-dog he deserved to be. No way he made enough to live in such glory. Last I heard from him, he wanted me to help him sell insurance to my tax clients. As if.
I’m going to pass on entering, however. Not that I’d win – it’s the same old story of he done me wrong and WHAT the hell was I thinking – but just thinking about it long enough to write it would give me hives. I will say, there was hardware involved. Do y’all know how easy it is to rip a towel rack out of the wall if you live in a cheap-ass apartment?
Yep – I was destined to write Bombshells.
Okay, guess I’ll put up the first story. If anything, at least it’ll give ya’ll some entertainment. 😉
The first guy I dated seriously was an important member of my band’s frat during my freshman year of college. So when we broke up, the entire band was in an uproar. The worst part? His best friend was my best friend. And she helped to spread some really nasty (and false) rumors about me. So the ENTIRE organization pretty much wanted nothing to do with me after that. Every single friend I had made HATED me. I had to eventually transfer to a different school because I couldn’t walk to any of my classes without some kind of insult flying my way.
Very depressing year. If anything, though, I learned an important lesson: make a life for yourself outside of your boyfriend. Even if your significant other has really nice friends, get your own! Trust me, it’s worth it!
oops. Just realized that I was supposed to EMAIL it. D’oh.
I guess that’s what happens when you try to do read this site at the same time as doing homework.
Ah, don’t worry about entering me. Just use my previous post as an entertainment factor.
Emailed mine. Don’t feel bad…I had to go back to my teens to find the bad story. Almost all of mine ended quite neatly. I’m still friends with the guy I lost my virginity to. Number two was a stripper. Number three lives around here somewhere. Number four, works for the same airline I do. Five, living in Kansas City. I married number six.
I know exactly where the dick in my story is. A trailer in Pennsylvania with his skank and four kids.
Heh. Heh. Heh.
Just emailed my story. Thanks for allowing me to resurrect all the shame, embarrassment & feelings of worthlessness from such a *painful* period in my life. Bitches.
Best part of my story … many many years later the Dick sat in front of me with his wife & ugly offspring, and until that point in the service when everyone is supposed to turn around & shake hands, I didn’t even recognize him. Not only did the little chickie he cheated on me with lose *her* figure after 3 pregnancies, so did he … Mmmm-wah-hah-hah-hah. Dude’s bloated like a whale on the beach, and just as hairless. [clapping childishly with glee]
— Bonz
My breakups are fairly lame and typical, but being a lesbian, we usually get to at least be AROUND dyke drama…my “favorite” involved the roommate who broke up with her girlfriend (who called up a few days later and required us calling the cops to break down her door to stop her from harming herself…) and started dating our OTHER roommate (of course, that had its own fun…nothing like breakup drama happening in your own house and being unable to avoid the ex! And watching it is “fun” too!)
I sent in my thing. Hey, if I can’t get a title the smart way I could win for being such a wuss!
I only ever had one break-up so that’s the one I used. Keeping the pain to 400 words was brutal but good call by the bitches. Could you imagine no word limit!?
CindyS
Hmm? a stripperfucker, Candy? I once dated a watermelonfucker. seriously, he actually fucked a watermelon once. and it wasn’t even his. it was his roommate’s. Can you imagine walking into your apartment, and being like, “Hey dude, where’s my watermelon?” And having your roommate say, “Actually it’s in the trash, because drilled a hole in it and fucked it.” If you can believe it, this relationship ended rather amicably. Maybe because I let him have custody of all the produce…
As for my breakup story… I’m debating whether to enter, because my best (worst?) breakup happened with my now husband and father of my son. But it was pretty good, and the upshot is that he dumped that skinny blonde six pack abs sporting psycho for a busty big nosed brunette like myself.
Entries will be posted anonymously, y’all, so feel free to submit without fear.
Oh, Lord. I will never look at a watermelon the same way again.
Had it been on ice? Would that not rather dampen a man’s, uh, ardor?
What was the attraction, I wonder?
I’ve heard of melon-like breasts, but … Jesus.
Sherry to your point:
“What was the attraction, I wonder?
I’ve heard of melon-like breast” – funny you should mention this, because he did have an extensive collection of magazines like “Juggs” and “Busty.” I never made the connection until just now. And I know what you mean – it took me years to enjoy a watermelon again. as for the temperature, i think he actually heated it in the microwave a little bit to warm and soften it up. And I have a friend whose ex wedged an eggplant between the cushions of a couch and then fucked that, so apparently this whole produce humping thing is not *that* uncommon.
The scary thing is that I stayed with the watermelon fucker for another 2 1/2 years after that. What can I say – young, dumb, and in the throes of first love. And I suppose at the time I was happy he was humping a fruit and not another woman.
I want to read Meara’s and Jami best break ups so enter!!
CindyS
Well, there’s a memorable passage in “Portnoy’s Complaint” in which the hero engages in an unnatural act with a raw piece of meat. (Which his family later eats for dinner. I think. It’s been a while since I read it.) So I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by men getting it on with somewhat hollowed-out vegetables.
If ladies can make use of phallic cukes, carrots and zucchinis, then I suppose we must allow males full access to the salad bar as well.
My next question is also logistical: How the hell did he fit a watermelon into a microwave? Now, a cantaloupe or a honeydew, I could understand …
Damn it, Jami, we want you to submit a detailed story. Stop teasing us!
Dammit Sherry, now I’m confused too! Maybe it was only a half watermelon (thankfully I wasn’t there to witness the act). I may be misremembering – Maybe it was the aforementioned eggplant fucker who microwaved his lovah to get her all hot and juicy before pounding her into the couch. That meat story is gross – I never read Portnoy’s Complaint. But I’m convinced that, if they think it might feel remotely like a vagina, men will stick their penises anywhere. If it’s Wednesday, it must rubber vaginas!
Okay, I’ve given some thought to this. Your ex may have displayed some fine discrimination in his choice of fruit. Getting it on with a perfectly spherical cantaloupe or a honeydew might have felt too much akin to doing a bowling ball. (This image might remind a man of certain sitcom episodes in which someone gets a digit stuck in the bowling ball & has to be surgically extracted. Not a good association: Surgery = affecting fate of one’s male member.)
A watermelon, on the other hand, is more ovoid, more solid, offers a better handhold, a great deep “thunk” sound when you knock on it, and would be pink & juicy inside. (On further consideration, I suspect the latter characteristics may have been the attraction, as well as the … well … melon-ness, since you said your ex really got into Jugs & Busty. But I still can’t shake the thought of how chilly they are.)
Also, perhaps the relatively firm, dark-colored watermelon seeds & the extra friction they afforded would lead to enhanced pleasure.
It’s definitely a male thing, though. I once heard someone say that having a baby was like trying to pass a watermelon. (SB Sarah may have some thoughts on this.) That alone would make most ladies disinclined to seek out its companionship.
No, let’s leave the watermelon to Jami’s ex.
A very lonely, desperate guy, for sure.
But a watermelon…wouldn’t that be awfully COLD?
“wouldn’t it be awfully COLD”?
Perhaps it was a poetically sun-warmed melon? Moving away from the produce section, but keeping the theme of extremes of temperature and food abuse, what about the whole Pot Noodle thing? They’ve always been nasty, but since I heard about this particular self-loving contrivance I have carefully avoided the instant noodle aisle at all costs. Ick ick ick.
Sadly, none of my break-ups, fizzling outs and blink-and-you-missed-its have been really bad. Just your usual run-of-the-mill pphhhlllfffttt, really. Except the last one (ain’t it always the truth?) largely due to copious amounts of self-delusion and idiocy on my part. But because the end came on with the speed and force of a brick wall meeting a motorbike at 80 mph, it’s not really story material. More of a haiku.
But I’ve been around others involved in their own real life soap operas, including a friend who has finally (thank you, Lord) dumped her moron husband, although she had to move to another country and get him stopped at immigration to succeed. And my brother went through a major bunny boiler phase which made his break-ups rather exciting for a period of time (although since his dream woman then was Alanis Morissette, he must bear some of the blame).
EAP: I’m afraid your adoring public needs—nay INSISTS—on the break-up haiku.
EAP: Adoring Bitch INSISTS on the haiku!
CindyS
Bunny boiler phase. Giggle.
Wow – thank you kindly for your requests, but must confess am also rather daunted at the prospect of an adoring public. Concerned that it might cause me to cease listening to criticism, convince myself the sun shines out of my sensitive artiste-ic nether regions and retire to write self-indulgent rubbish about alien civilizations. Perhaps part-time adoring will work.
Anyhow, the muse is being rather elusive this morning (or at least quite whiny and stroppy-adolescent on the topic of my break-up). I’ll attempt to beat it into submission, but in the meantime, here’s my humble effort at a haiku dedicated to Jami.
For forbidden fruit
He stalks the fresh produce aisle
The melon-f*cker
EAP – I’m so *sniff* touched. I don’t think I’ve ever had a haiku dedicated to me. Just for that I may have to share my “he dumped me on my birthday” break up story. But he married me 2 1/2 years later, so I can’t complain too much.