We had been dating for three months. You spent one to two nights a week in my bed, lingering after I go to work. We hadn't labeled things yet, but we were building something, so I planned a wonderful dinner for your birthday. I bought fancy steaks, got flowers for the table, chocolate for after dinner, and a great bottle of wine. I bought a super hot bra and panties to share with you that night, and wore stockings and a garter. You showed up empty-handed with a chip on your shoulder, ate dinner, drank my wine, and took me to bed, where you made it all about you. Then, after you finished, you got up and told me you'd be back in 15 minutes—you were going to get a shot across the street. Three hours later I found you passed out drunk on my steps, so I threw your shit at you, tried to wake you up, and called the cops. Watching you get arrested was the most satisfying thing I've ever experienced. I truly hope you get your shit together, but I'm not going to be the one you shit on while you get there.—Anonymous
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