Took a Shit, Lost the Girl
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So, there I was, drowning in my fourth whiskey coke of the night. The moody lighting of my shitty apartment barely illuminating the clumps of fast food wrappers and pizza boxes strewn throughout the living room. And, yes, there was my ex-girlfriend, in all her digital glory, living her best life on Instagram in the arms of Mr. Probably-Better-Than-Me. Fucking hell...
Confused? Let's rewind a bit.
Now, I'm no Casanova. I mean, when the universe was handing out charm, I was probably off somewhere messing with my Star Wars action figures. But, for some reason, this girl liked me. She was my sun, my moon, my... you get the gist. I loved her, and as I gazed into her icy-blue eyes, I thought, "Hey, maybe I'm not such a loser after all."
Fast-forward to the incident. It was our one-year anniversary. I was nervous as fuck. Made reservations at our favourite Italian spot and even bought her a necklace that cost more than the collective value of all the tat in my apartment.
Dinner was fantastic. We laughed, we kissed, and here's the kicker, she said she loved me for the first time. And I, overwhelmed by sheer joy and probably a little too much wine, felt the call. The call of nature.
Now, I'm aware this is not the most romantic thing, but when you gotta go, you gotta go. So, I excused myself and sprinted to the bathroom faster than a cheetah on steroids.
The bathroom, quite simply, was a disaster zone. It was like Chernobyl in there, only with less radiation and more... you know.
But here's where the real fuck-up begins. Flush wasn't working. Out of all the fucking days, why today? Instantly, I’m in panic mode. I’m frantic, sweating bullets, twisting every knob on that confounded toilet like a desperate DJ trying to fix a bungled set. But it refuses to budge.
I sneak back to the table, intending to confess to the waitress, maybe even tip her a little extra. Unfortunately, my girlfriend decided to visit the bathroom first. I froze, watching the love of my life walk towards impending doom.
The shriek of horror echoing through the restaurant still haunts me. She rushed back, red as a tomato, mumbling something about wanting to leave. And leave, we did. The worst part? She didn't say a word to me throughout the ride back.
The next morning, I woke up to a text reading, "I think we should see other people."
I mean, who the fuck breaks up over a toilet debacle? So, here I am, slamming whiskey cokes, torturing myself with her Instagram updates.
Why am I sharing this with you? Who the fuck knows? Maybe it's the whiskey talking, or maybe I'm hoping some of you shitters (pun intended) learn from my misery.
And if you're listening, universe, a little luck wouldn't hurt next time, you cruel, cruel bitch.