My last relationship ended much like they all do - I had the graphic realization that I was dating a conniving whore, and things came tumbling down faster than a game of Jenga between two cerebral palsy patients. For one reason or another, I continually find myself in this situation with every girl I decide to become romantically involved with. I suppose one reason could be that all females are, indeed, manipulative, heartless, cum buckets. Bitter, you say? Me? Noo, never! Okay, maybe I’m a little bitter. But, much like the lime to a stiff shot of tequila, there is a foolproof remedy for the bitterness of a breakup. Finding yourself a suitable rebound girl/guy is the first step towards keeping your sanity and getting over that filthy, no good ex of yours. On this particular night, I was the mother fucking Dennis Rodman of rebound girls.
After the usual breakup banter, I stiffened my upper lip and acquired my antidote of choice: a bottle of merlot, which I decided I would singlehandedly finish before sunset and see where the rest of the evening took me. After popping the cork and mixing a few anonymous narcotics with my vino, I was beginning to get sloppier than a threesome involving Lindsay Lohan, Courtney Love, and an 8-ball of blow.
About three-quarters of the way through my bottle, I took a swig and completely missed my mouth, sending a waterfall of red wine down my neck and onto my crisp white V-neck tee. Normally, something like this would throw me into a fit of rage, leading to the destruction of home furnishings and possibly ruining my night. However, when I went into the bathroom to change my shirt, what I discovered was a surefire sign from the Gods. Looking into the mirror, I saw that my spill had left a stain on my shirt in the shape of a nearly perfect exclamation point. Intoxicated and excited, I snapped a picture.




"So?" he asked me. "Is there anything else you want to say?"
2. If you think you're fat, you probably are. Don't ask us.


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