First is the Worst

I'm sorry for having to get all deep and shit for my first real post but I can thank this asshole for all the great stories to come and my future jaded self. Both of us were young, passionate and naive. We met at Sunday school, where I was promptly kicked out of. I remember he was the stoner kid in class who always chewed on pens until they exploded and for some reason I swooned. We started our relationship by me buying weed off of him one Friday night and smoking far too much in the process. He became a savior by keeping me safe in the unfamiliar territory of his friends.

We were together for 3 long tumultuous years. We kissed for the first time watching college softball and fucked for the first time after my grandmothers birthday party out of boredom, clear signs of "true love."  Everyday I picked him up from school and went to his house. Every night was full mediocre positions and juvenile tiffs over comments left on each others MySpace page. My friends disappeared out of my life completely and I became a leech to his. I was ok with this though. I thought "this is love". Blind.

I moved to Boston to attend college, where I started to develop a life of my own, while he was left back in the South Shore of MA. I visited every other weekend. I became controlled and given boundaries I've never had before:

• No drinking
• No parties
• No friends
• No modeling
• Constant check ins
• Approved tattoos
• Approved piercings

Sounds as fun of as a trip to the dentist right? 

Photos of me from class started to pop up on Facebook. How dare I have friends! Random 2 AM calls saying, "I'm in the parking lot. I can see someone in your room with you" or "if you don't come down to see me I'll jump in front of a train." Sadly, I knew he wasn't one to joke about those things. I played into all of his game, never leaving my dorm room or attending a single party my freshman year in college. 

Sadly, I thought this was all normal. My mother constantly talked to him on the phone and oozes to me about how great of a guy he was. Me thinking, "If she thinks he's great, he has to be. Nothings wrong." I accepted gifts as forms of apology after nights of screaming, crying and belittling. Rings, necklaces, roses and random visits at work. A true gentleman on the inside, right?

The next year I commuted back and forth from my hometown to Boston 4 times a week so I could ease his troubled mind. I bought him a car, with intent that he'd pay me back, in order for him to be able to pick me up from the train on those days. I stood with him nightly to show I wasn't doing things he wouldn't approved of. Still it didn't work. I wasn't able to leave his house unless he allowed me to. He would block the door with his 6'3" frame, restrain me or lay in front of my car. If I did manage to leave, he'd call my mother and create the most elaborate stories about me hitting him with his car, yelling at his mother, etc. I soon became the bad guy in the house I grew up in. I would walk through the front door of that house knowing that my fight was not over; never being able to escaped the negativity of that relationship.

Finally, after realizing I was calling the cops on him weekly and finally being physically hit and locked in his car driving 90 down the highway with him screaming "If you don't want to be with me, I'll kill us both," I had enough.

I decided I needed a rebound and knew the perfect person. I contacted him after years of not speaking and told him everything that had been occurring for the last few years. He comforted me and invited me to the small island off the coast of MA to visit for the weekend. I took my best friend with me. After many screw drivers and a brass monkey later, I fucked that chode. The morning was no different. I left the island that afternoon and when I got back I realized I had created my first stalker. Phone calls of, "I'm moving back to the South Shore," "I heard you're moving to Boston, I think I might too," "I think we're perfect together,"and "have you told your family about us?" Bro turned bat-shit crazy. Promptly I cut him out of my life, having only seen him once since then; 2 years later walking around the Mission Hill of Boston. I did the duck and weave.

I consider my attempted rebound a bust. I cried, for 3 months straight. I went down to 83 lbs,  jumped from house to house and sleeping at the beach from morning until dusk, all summer.

Come August of that year my cousin was sick of hearing the same old story and afraid I'd never change my mind set, she decided to give me an alcohol lobotomy. She started taking me to local parties and letting my drunk ass crash on her couch. Jagerbomb after Jagerbomb after Jagerbomb, I became myself. Sitting on trash barrels claiming "THIS IS MY SPOT," to telling everyone "I'm going to throw Facebook to BING, ain't no one gonna be able to find that shit," and getting tattoos that in the morning I completely forgot I had acquired. My drunken rants were the best therapy sessions anyone one could as for.

I moved back to Boston the following semester a new person and started my life of lust, "dress to get laid" parties, FourLokos, frats and maybe one too many lines in the bathroom.

Thanks asshole,

XO

PS.

Don't suck off a guy if his dick is pierced. It will get stuck in your throat and you will have a "The Sweetest Thing" moment. Possibly occurring on two separate occasions.

PSS.

If you notice purple spots in the back of your throat, do not tell your mother and have you take her to your old pediatrician; it's just a bruise from the previously stated activity. You will be embarrassed when you don't get the hint from the doctor saying, "do you eat a lot of lollipops?" and then it clicks, whilst sitting 3 feet away from the woman who birthed you and understood the hint first. Mic drop.