My friend Marie used to date this complete douchebag named Lenny. She was really into him because he has this charming way of clearing his throat and snorting at the same time, and he had eleven different pairs of carpenter jeans. What a catch! He was almost as excellent as my boyfriend at the time, who mooched money off me after buying $70 video games and didn't believe in brushing his teeth. But this particular blog is about her bad choices, not mind. You can judge my relationship history later, when I can do it justice by using an abundance of offensive adjectives and embarrassing anecdotes.
Marie put up with a lot of crap from Lenny in the time that they dated, and wasted her hottest teenage years on him. She could definitely have done better, but she was determined to make it work with this moron because of how bright their future seemed to be together or something senseless like that. They broke up at least 17 times, but they got back together 16 times because he was so irresistible. The 17th time, she found out he was sexting a 12-year-old slut while on Christmas vacation with Marie's family. Did I mention he was a dumbass? He was a dumbass.
So while they were sitting right next to each other, enjoying Christmasy family time and being above the legal age of adulthood, Marie glanced at Lenny's phone and voiced her curiosity about the child pornography presented on the screen. He had his phone stealthily tilted slightly away from her, overlooking her secret ability to lean forward.
Marie: Excuse me, but who the hell are you getting boob pictures from on Christmas?
Lenny: Nobody! That was a dog my friend is trying to sell me, you silly.
Lenny: Okay. It was some girl who's obsessed with me; I met her when I was hanging around the middle school in my trenchcoat. I'm not sure how she got my number, I sure wish she'd leave me alone.
Lenny: She's always harassing me with pictures of her naked body. Like I want to see that! I'd rather see my cousin naked. But really.
Lenny: ...What?! I almost never send her pictures back!
So she left him alone with his prepubescent nudie pictures to call me and ridicule him for an hour and a half. We picked apart every obnoxious or stupid thing he had done in the past four years of their relationship and blew them all out proportion to vent our rage at him. I was merciless in my critique of his personality, hoping that the 17th time of breaking up would be the charm. I know that wasn't the best way to handle it, but he was always killing our fun with his moody presence and his bowl cut.
A few weeks after The Christmas Boob Incident of 2009, they arranged to meet at his house and give each other their stuff back so they could move on with their lives and forget about each other's existence. Her sister Kelly and I went along with Marie for moral support and because we both wanted to kick Lenny in the nads.
He had been going on about how he still loved Marie and would do anything to get her back, and we all knew it because he would say so on Facebook at least three times a week. Incessant calls, texts, and Facebook posts might scream "I'm sorry" in some people's books, but in the case of Lenny it was just another example of his scary obsessiveness.
We showed up at his house that evening to find a strange car parked in the driveway. A girl's car, judging by the Playboy Bunny bumper sticker and flip-flop shaped air freshener. Marie went and knocked on the door while Kelly and I waited apprehensively outside. We saw Lenny and some ugly girl we'll call Trashley look out the window, spot Marie's car, and pull down the blinds. Lenny answered the door about ten minutes later, exclaiming through the dip in his lip, "Oh! I didn't know anybody was here!" Kelly and I rolled our eyes at each other, leaning against the car and waiting, trying to look nonchalant so none of the ghetto people would want to mess with us. A truck pulled up with two girls and two guys in it, and Trashley lumbered out of the house to greet them and fill them in on what was goin' awn over yonder. These hicks really fit in with their troubled-inner-city-youth surroundings.
They bumbled loudly about Lenny's bitch of an ex-girlfriend, how they could take Kelly and me in a fight, and how Trashley shouldn't leave "her man" alone with his ex. Kelly glowered and cracked her knuckles menacingly. I glanced nervously from her, to them, to the door where I wished Marie would hurry up and appear. After listening to the constant haze of hillbilly-style ridicule for so long that I couldn't take it anymore, we thought we should go inside and at least check on the situation. Because we didn't want to get in a fight in the street of the ghetto at night for some reason.
The scene in the kitchen was one of recently resolved tension. Marie assured us that Trashley wasn't a girl he was seeing, just a friend of his cousin. Lenny nodded vigorously, eager to convince everyone of his innocence and uninterrupted devotion to Marie. Since the story on the streets was quite different, I raised my eyebrows skeptically at poor, hopeful, optimistic, gullible Marie and hated Lenny for deceiving her like that. I decided to call him out on being the worst person ever created; it was a long time coming, I wanted it to be dramatic, and I might not get another chance, so as I stood up from my bar stool with murder in my eyes, I collected my thoughts to counteract his story as eloquently and maturely as I could.
Me: What the FUCK, Lenny?!
Kelly: Seriously dude, we just heard --
Me: Your cousin's friend? Oh that's about as likely as--
Kelly: --called you her "MAN," what's that about if--
Me: --don't know what's wrong with, are you HIGH or just --
Kelly: --ought to kick your--
These broken accusations went on for a while as Lenny stared, mouth agape, into his defeat. He slumped further and further down with each damning piece of evidence he was forced to face. Marie looked at him in disgust so great that we all threw up in our mouths a little. She told him he deserved less than that whale girl, that he was a lying sack of shit, and that she was glad to be rid of him. Then we stood in silence, gathering spit to sling in his face then deciding not to, listening to the two couples and Trashley continue to laugh and joyful badmouth us in the living room.
We drove home, screaming our hearts out to angsty teenage songs to express our bitter rage towards all lying cheating men-scum. It was the end of an era... we weren't getting pushed around by men anymore, because Alanis Morissette and Pink told us so.