How I Ruined the Best Relationship I've Ever Had.com

A Story by ggephart

Hi, this is Greg. Thank you all for visiting my blog and for listening to my side of the story. I know that since Stacy and I broke up a few weeks ago, there have been some rumors going around what really happened, so I made this website to clear some things up. If you ask Stacy about the incident, I'm sure she will feed you some line about how “it was for the best” and “we wanted different things” and “he is a 28 year old man baby”, but she is broken inside. Just let her think she's fooled you, she wants so much to be strong for me. She made a website telling her side of the breakup as well, but it just has a picture of me, that time I fell asleep eating a chili cheese dog in Walgreen's, so I don't even know what that means. Anyways, if you want to be an unbiased judge of the situation you should probably check her blog out also; the link is www.gregisalittlebitchboy.com. Now, I will tell you the complete and true story of how I ruined the best relationship of my life.

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While many couples will attribute the downfalls of their relationships to a multitude of differences and troubles, I can trace the failure of my own to 10:42 AM on March 24^th, 2012. This was the morning of our friend Kathy's 1920's themed poker party. Kathy always threw the most extravagant parties so Stacy had went out and bought this fancy-looking, white cocktail dress for the occasion, that when I asked later she would not even reveal the price of. When leaving for work that morning she left her dress hanging in the doorway of the closet and told me not to go near it to avoid my “man handling” her precious outfit that was “worth more than that piece of s**t you call a car”. I couldn't believe she had so little faith in me! She was treating me like a child. So, naturally, I ordered some chicken wings and sat in front of the closet, staring at the dress while I ate. “You treat me like a child, I'll act like a child,” I thought. I was really getting a kick out of imagining her coming home to see me sitting inches from her snowy white dress, eating greasy bits of chicken smothered in dark red barbeque sauce. “She really has no faith in me at all,” I said to myself, my mouth bulging with chicken, “It's a sad thing when a woman thinks she can't trust her boyfriend to even be in the same room as her �"” And then, I sneezed.

A shower of barbeque sauce and chicken bits spurted from my mouth and nose, splattering all over the pristine dress. For a moment, the world stood perfectly still as I stared at the sauce covered cloth. “S**t!” All she had asked me to do was to stay away from this dress! This dress whose monetary value may well be more than that of my station wagon (however, if value was measured in fond memories, it wouldn't stand a chance against old Greta). I had to wash it straight away. I grabbed it by the skirt and tried to yank it off the hanger, running towards the door. Rip. “S**t!” One of the straps had somehow, through no fault of my own, detached itself from the shoulder. But, no matter, I could staple that back on later. I ran to the washing machine and threw the dress in, throwing in some soap and cranking the dial to the hottest setting. We all know that the hotter the temperature the more easily stains come out. I paced around the living room for 45 minutes watching ESPN out of the corner of my eye and waiting anxiously to hear the buzz of the washing machine. But when I tentatively removed the dress from the machine, the stain was barely visible! I sang praises to the Gods of textiles and danced around the room. Stacy would never be the wiser. I had carefully hung it back on its hanger to dry when I noticed something peculiar. It seemed a little short... and a little small. “S**t!” I had shrunk it. So, I did the only logical thing I could think of: I tried to stretch it back out. That was when I ripped the other strap off. As I had all but set fire to the thing by this point, I decided it was time to get professional help. I grabbed my keys and ran out the door, headed for the dry cleaners around the corner. I jumped in the car, slamming the door on the dress. I pulled it out and threw it in the backseat where it landed in an old pizza box. There was still a few crusts in there but there was no time to worry about that now, Stacy would be home in mere hours. I was frantic to get to the dry cleaners, have them work their dry cleany magic and restore the dress to its original glory, returning it safely to me in a large plastic garment bag that says “Please come again” on the front, and have this all be over. I jammed the key into the ignition and shot out of the driveway. And that, was when I ran over Stacy's cat.

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Now, friends, there are many things a woman will put up with in a relationship: puking on her dad's left foot, giving her H1N1, rolling yourself up in the sheets and telling her you are a burrito, absolutely annihilating her new dress. Apparently, “killing her best friend of thirteen years” is not one of those things. We “went our separate ways” and I have missed her every day since. And so, I want this blog to serve as a lesson to all men currently in the best relationship of their lives: Do not eat chicken wings anywhere but the back yard. Ever.

© 2012 ggephart

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Shelley Holt-Lowrey

This one deserves so much more than an OMG with an exclaimation, but it's the best kudos in my arsenal so.... OMG! Funny and funnier and sadly not totally imposible to imagine. Please do not stop. I try my damndest to be funny, and then something maudlin pops out. Cheers. Off to shop for better Kudos.