Now, I'm going to tell you all a "story" that you'll forget immediately after reading it. You are getting verrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry sleepy...
Two years ago, I may or may not have randomly met the man I truly thought I was going to marry. It was one of those "I-wasn't-even-expecting-it-so-this-must-be-the-real-deal" type of encounters. Too bad he was already married. Dick!
Long story short, he lived in the Midwest and I lived in midtown Manhattan, so we delved deep into a full-blown long distance (mostly technology-based) relationship quick, fast, and in a motherfucking hurry. I'm talking G-chat all day, texts and sexts and 3-hour phoners all night.
Nearly a year went by, and after a few weekend visits here and there, a few failed attempts at exotic European and African rendezvous, lots of pricy gifts exchanged through FedEx and 1-800-Flowers, deep down I knew something just wasn't ... right.
Since inquiring minds wanted to know, I consulted with one of my "Good Judy's" who happens to be a former reporter at a very popular NYC newspaper, and knows an investigative trick or two on how to legally dig up "supposedly personal" dirt on dipshit dudes. Bada bing, bada bang, bada boom: Three phone calls, two hours and one 100% legal -- before y'all go in on me -- background check later, I knew damn near everything about this man, including how much his mother paid for her house, his boss's email address, and his current marital status, which was -- wait for it -- MARRIED. Shocker.
Side note: I love background checks. Word to the wise -- keep your shit clean people -- what's done in the dark will come to light, especially in this day and age. I even had the wife's contact info, and her immediate and extended family's as well, but out of respect for her unknowing ignorance, I decided to leave them out of it.
She'd have been unnecessary collateral damage, and I didn't want to be the one to fuck her cushy world up. She's a stay at-home wife to a very well-paid architect -- and that's a damn good gig. Any aspiring kept bitch worth her weight in midday martinis knows that those positions don't come around too often. Lucky!
Besides, in the spirit of scorned sisterhood, she shouldn't have to learn this information from me, especially since I had no problem with her. Him, on the other hand? Woosah!
So back to the moment my new-age love affair blew up in my pretty little face. After an epic wall-slide (OK, OK, 10 epic wall slides), I peeled myself off of the floor, and realized I could do one of the following three:
1) Walk away with my head held high,
B) Call and confront/expose him, or
I took the somewhat high road and chose option G and decided to FUCK his whole world up digitally from the comfort of my home. (Much safer.) I won't get into all of the details, but it involved emailing this image to everyone (EVERYONE) he's ever come into e-contact with:
Heh. (Emily Thorne/Amanda Clarke ain't got shit on me. Clearly I missed my calling as a revenge coach.)
Little did I know, my horrible hysterical horrible hysterical horrible hysterical hysterically horrible (that works) act of revenge on him would do a number on me, too. He cried, but I CRIED. Day in, day out, in the shower, on the shitter, at the office, on the plane, anywhere, everywhere, all the time. I just couldn't understand how I'd been so easily duped -- as a lifelong street-savvy sass-slanging swashbuckler (say that three times fast!), I've always been great at calling people out on their sublime bullshit.
Anyway, as a private, prideful Scorpio, of course I couldn't let the world know what utter pain I was going through. That's where this AMAZING L'Oreal Paris Voluminous Million Lashes Waterproof Mascara ($7 at WalMart.com) comes in.
This bitch is brilliant for those days when you absolutely, positively have to fake it. It's great for weddings, funerals, graduations, breakups and everything in between where tears are bound to flow aplenty -- rest assured that nary bit of this waterproof formula will run, even after 10 thick, spider-y, Tammy Faye-like coats. With that said, I went ahead and quit foundation for a while though. Couldn't deal with the telltale tear-stained cheeks.
The takeaway here? Guys: Don't get married to a Natasha if you're going to cheat with a Carrie. Girls: Invest in a tube of the good shit. You know, just in case. Never know when you're going to need it. (But I truly hope you never do. I'm still trying to recover.)
Disclaimer: This "story" may or may not be true. Just wanted to put that out there. You know, just in case. But if it is, know that one or two details have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.
India-Jewel regularly doles out awesome revenge advice over on Twitter at @IndiaJewelJax. Here's a freebie: Pouring sugar in his gas tank? Kid shit. Slip a Snickers or two down that bitch -- all that nougaty caramel will lock his WHOLE engine up. Or so she's heard. (Disclaimer!)