Shrek is an Ass

A few months ago, I found myself thinking about Shrek for the first time in a long time. A few months into our relationship, he told me that his mother had terminal cancer and was not seeking treatment for it. She only had a couple of months to live. When I asked him about it, he wouldn't say anything. He would lash out at me for no reason or tell me that I needed to be more sensitive to what he's going through. I spent the next year walking on eggshells around him for fear that something would upset him.

His mother sent him cards monthly over the next year we were dating, and they were all chipper and mentioned nothing about the cancer. At the time I just thought they all were ignoring it and that was how they dealt with it. After the first month when he brought it up, he never spoke a word about it again. I didn't ask him any questions about it because I didn't want to bring up a sore area. When he wouldn't talk, I just assumed it was too hard, not that he didn't know how to follow through with his story. Despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary, I accepted that his mother did have cancer. I trusted the person I was dating, so the idea that he would make up an outrageous lie about his mom never even crossed my mind once.

Then a couple of months ago I found myself thinking about it again. So I did what any crazy person would do and Googled his mom. Not only did I not find her obituary, I found plenty of evidence that she was alive and well. Eight years later.

I found myself suddenly remembering the circumstances of when he first told me. It was after we got back together after er had broken up due to the fact he had slept with a girl who lived on my floor. It seems so obvious now. Of course he had done this to manipulate me into putting up with his terrible behavior. He knew were were on thin ice and the only way he could think to keep me around was to make me think his mother was dying.

After my revelation, I spent the next few days beyond angry with myself. I was furious that I had let myself believe such a ridiculous lie. I spent over a year with him after the news because I thought he needed someone. He was consistently horrible to me, but I put up with it because I was convinced that he was going through what I imagined to be the most traumatic thing possible. The whole time, the only one going through something terrible was me. I'd never been so disappointed in myself.

Until I realized that I'm not the loser in this situation. I'm not the one who is so insufferable that the only way I can keep someone with me is to convince them my mom is dying.

Seriously Shrek, you're a fucking tool.

Crazy for you

I am an anxious person. This is a fact. You would notice after talking to me for 5 minutes. I fidget constantly. I worry about everything. I panic over mundane details. I'm better now than I've ever been. I think that's just part of growing up, you realize that nothing is really that important. The world won't come to an end if I take a sick day. We aren't all going to die if I throw a party without a signature cocktail. Really, none of this is important.

Years ago, I didn't realize this and still worried about everything. My anxiety was out of control and I was on medication for it. Though, once I sought treatment for my anxiety it got better. I really wasn't different from any other person at that point. I didn't tell many people about this because of the stigma associated with mental health problems. It was my dark secret.

Shrek knew about this. Telling him was a mistake. I was open and honest about everything and explained to him what my situation was like. He didn't get it. Or he chose not to. He insisted I needed a one way ticket to the looney bin. He took every opportunity to remind me that I was crazy. One time he couldn't find a shirt, and I asked him if he had checked his hamper. He screamed at me and accused me of not taking my medication. Because I suggested he look in his hamper. Seriously. Oh, and for the record, it was there.

He told me I would never be able to get a job after college because of my psychological problems. He told me I would never be able to have children or even a pet. He told me I would never be able to get anyone else to date me. If I tried to have a conversation with him, he would interrupt me by singing "Crazy." When he did not get the grades to keep his scholarship, he wrote a letter to the dean citing my "severe mental illness" as the reason he was unable to keep his grades up.

Seriously. Shrek was an asshole. I've tip-toed around the issue in the past by only bitching about silly little things he did. But, the real reason I hate him is because he knew about something I was insecure about. And rather than accept this, he exploited it.

I'd like to suggest that when the DSM-V is created, there is an entry for being an asshole. Shrek can be a case study.

Skid Row Bums

Fred had a relative whom his family ridiculed for a vareity of reasons. One of the most ridiculous was the fact that, despite being well past potty-training age (able-bodied and of normal intelligence), she still would not wipe her own rear.

Fred, on the other hand, was in his mid-twenties and did wipe his own rear, however the responsibility proved to be too much for him. Despite years of practice, he still had not mastered the art of properly cleaning himself. I don't mean to single out Fred. Shrek was just as bad about this. This is more of a general rant.

Dating Shrek was terrible because every single pair of boxers he owned had...evidence of wear. And Fred was so bad that every single surface in his apartment that he had ever sat on smelled like what comes out of one's bottom. It was absolutely foul. I couldn't sit on his sofa without smelling poo.

It just completely blows my mind that the men I used to date would wear roomy boxers and still manage to get their butt juice on them, while I wear thongs -- underwear designed to go up my ass -- and they still are stain-free.

Both of these men tried to defend their wiping skills, claiming that men just have leaky butts. Um, no, not all men do. In fact, in my experience I have found that most do not.

Just to make sure I am not dating the exceptions, I asked some girlfriends about their experience with men having this problem. Then, I asked some men if they personally had this problem. My conclusion is that this is not a normal condition. If your butt is leaking, you really need to go to the doctor and have that problem addressed. Your underwear should not be covered in stains. Your furniture should not smell.

Seriously, boys, you are disgusting. Go to a doctor.

Psychological Case Study: Shrek

It is said that serial killers usually have a history of abusing animals. I am not accusing any of my exes of being serial killers, but I strongly believe the way one treats animals is a reflection of what kind of person he or she is.

In that vein, I strongly believe that the psychological problems of my exes can be expressed in anecdotes about their treatment of animals. This will be the first case study in a series about my exes.

As a sorority initiation gift, my big sis gave me a beta fish. It was super-awesome. I named it Captain Ron and loved it dearly. When the end of the semester came, I asked Shrek if I could take a fish on a plane or if I should ask someone who lives locally to board my beloved pet for the summer. His response: "You could put some bleach in the water and kill it."

Clearly, I had no desire to kill my pet. The question was how to make it live through the summer. For the record, I left it with a classmate who lived in town. My fish was alive and well when I returned from summer break. She even generously upgraded his bowl to a self-filtering tank.

On a similar note, Shrek had a dog back home. He kept it outside, year round. Even though the place he lived was known for being particularly cold. One day, he got off the phone with his mom and without emotion declared "I no longer have a dog." His parents had put the dog down. Not because it was terminally ill, or fatally wounded. They put it down because they didn't feel like having a dog anymore.

In both the dog and the fish case, he proved that he was comfortable killing things that were no longer convenient to have around. This inability to feel compassion for living things or respect for life should have been a clear indicator of what was to come in our relationship. I suppose I should be happy I got out before his aggression resulted in me being like to dog and the fish.

Screaming Infidelities

I'll be the first to admit that my moral compass does not always point true north. However, there are things that even I wouldn't do. Being the "other woman" is one of them.

Shrek had an ex. I'm going to call her Vikki. He painted the picture that she was crazy. Maybe she was. He carried Vikki's senior picture around in his wallet. At first I figured that he just never got around to taking it out. Then I realized that she was a senior after he had started college, so he would have gotten it after they had broken up. The whole time we were dating, the picture stayed in his wallet. I should also add that she wasn't really very pretty. Not that it matters to the story. It just matters to me. Grossly enough, a flirty picture of his 12 year-old cousin also maintained residence in his wallet the entire time we were dating.

One day, I finally got a little annoyed with the wallet picture issue and asked him why he still carried it. He told me Vikki would get mad if it wasn't there and she checked every time he was home. Um, why was Vikki even checking his wallet? Why the hell does she care if an ex has her picture or not? Weird.

Anyway, I tried not to think about Vikki, since she was in the boonie town Shrek was from, and we were thousands of miles away from that place. There were times when I suspected he never broke up with Vikki, that she didn't even know about me. But I wanted to trust him, so I would convince myself that was not happening. I convinced myself that she knew I existed and respected that I was dating her ex.

Well, I was half right.

Shrek mentioned a conversation with Vikki that took place online. And from his description, it sounded inappropriate. I pried for more information, but he flipped out and told me it was none of my business.

Well, of course this made me want to know about the conversation that much more. So, when I got to his room, I checked his chat log. In front of him. And wow. I normally do not ever condone spying on your boyfriend, but this time, it was totally warranted.

It started off innocently enough...

Vikki: Hey!!!!
Shrek: Hey
Vikki: How are you?
Shrek: Good, how are you?

Then, it got shady...

Vikki: I'm great. Are you still dating that girl?
Shrek: yeah
Vikki: Are you faithful? ;-)

What. The. Fuck.

His answer was basically a coy "no," but that's not nearly as interesting as the fact she would even ask this. I mean, where the hell is this even acceptable?

To me, this is like asking "Do you still have a dog? Do you still feed it?" In my mind, being faithful to someone is a required and assumed part of dating them.

This girl was desperately trying to steal my boyfriend. Who the hell does that? I mean, really, does she think that some guy who bangs her on the side will eventually start dating her and they will actually have a healthy relationship that does not involve banging other sluts on the side?

That's fucking delusional. Vikki, Shrek, where ever you two are, I hope you end up together. You deserve each other.

What Not to Buy Your Girlfriend on Valentine's Day

So, I'm probably beating a dead horse by making another bad gift post. But, it's Valentine's Day, and bad gifts never fail to be hilarious. So, suck it up and pretend you haven't heard this one yet.

What I have recieved in the past:

Fred: The first Valentine's Day we were together, he gave me nothing. The big fucking goose egg. We had dated for 6 months, so I kind of expected something, but was left empty handed. I recieved flowers from 4 other people and he still didn't take the hint. I canned his ass shortly thereafter. We got back together and the next Valentine's Day we were together, he mailed me a care package from Walmart. Now, I love Walmart as much as the next person (ok, probably much much more than the next person), but V-Day is not the time to get me Walmart knick-knacks. A box of batteries, cans of soup and beef jerky hardly constitutes a romantic gift. And a big stuffed dog is hardly appropriate for someone who is not a child.

Shrek: Gave me a box of chocolates. But then he ate them. Seriously, he presented me with a half-eaten box of chocolates as a gift. And the only ones left were the ones he didn't want. Why even bother?

Fruit Fly: Gave me a vase that was covered by a stuffed koala...it's hard to explain, but basically, it looked like a red plant was coming out of the koala's ass. Also, he gave me a chocolate bar that fell on the floor at work and he therefore obtained for free.

Boris: Ok, this is actually really really sweet, but a little misguided. He decided to be very romantic for Valentine's Day and got me two dozen roses, a huge box of Godiva truffles, a big heart-shaped balloon and a card. Except, he did this at school (I was 16 at the time), so I spent the entire day lugging around my Valentine's Day bonanza (my locker was way too small for the balloon and roses). Also, I was (and still am) really shy, so I didn't exactly love all the attention these things brought me. I loved the gifts, but I would have preferred recieving them at home.

At this point, I am over the idea of Valentine's Day. This year, I am just hoping for a good dinner and a lot of alcohol.

Gotta Go Right Now

As a child, I didn't have the best coordination. I never could hold my pencil correctly and I tied my shoes the weird way (two loops instead of one). Not to mention, both my knees are covered in scars from the zillions of nasty spills I took. I'd like to say that this is one of those things that improved with age, but that would be well not true.

I'm as clumsy now as ever and on any given day, I 'm certain to have at least one knee bruised from tripping on the curb (Seriously, its like watching an episode of when curbs attack). I am completely clumsy, uncoordinated and awkward. This is an unchangeable part of who I am and I accept it but it has resulted in some interesting situations.

For example, I was home from college for spring break one year, while Shrek remained at school. I took this opportunity to spend time with my family and my high school friends.

One night, we were playing drinking board games -- girls vs. boys with the girls' team totally dominating at Simpsons Battle of the Sexes but after several beers, I needed a bathroom break.

I was really in a hurry and somehow in the process of trying to get my belt undone, I managed to jam it really badly. It had one of those slidey buckle things like an old boy scout belt and I managed to slip part of it out of where it was supposed to be and I could not get the thing undone. After unsuccessful attempts, I realized I needed assistance.

I snuck back out and pulled my friend to the side to see if she could get it unjammed. After a few minutes of pulling, she was unable to get it to budge. I discreetly pulled another girl to the side who was also unable to get it undone.

At this point I was in pain I gave up and asked a guy. This was incredibly embarrassing and awkward at the time, but he was able to get my belt off.

The next day, Shrek called and I mentioned what I had been up to over the past couple of days including the belt story which after the fact just seemed really funny to me.

Shrek did not see the humor in the situation. In fact, he spent the next 15 minutes screaming into the phone about what a slut I was.

At least that's what I think he screamed about the whole time. I put the phone down after five minutes to go get a drink of water and when I came back, he was still carrying on. I explained that it wasn't like I asked him to take my pants off -- I just needed someone to assist with my belt so I would not have to piss myself. But this point was lost on him.

Apparently not peeing my pants makes me a slut. But, according to him, my Vineyard Vines tote bag, Rainbow flip-flops and hairbands also made me a slut. I don't think that word means what he thinks it means.

The Crying Game

After about 5 months of dating, Shrek's eyebrows were starting to grow together into one unibrow. It was gross.

Well, maybe not as gross as the fact that he cleaned his ears with a car key. And probably not as gross as all those times he spit phlegm into half empty soda bottles which he forgot to throw away for weeks, leaving a nasty culture of whatever lurks in his throat. And definitely not as gross as that really gross thing he once did that I told BJA about earlier. But, it was still pretty nasty.

I waited for about 2 months before I finally said something about the unibrow. By this time it was Bert from Sesame Street bad. I suggested he get it waxed into two distinct eyebrows, the kind most non-neanderthals have. My suggestion did not exactly go over well. There was no way he was going to get his eyebrows waxed. That was for chicks. He didn't want to look like a chick with thin, arched eyebrows. I explained that they would not give him girl eyebrows, but he still refused to go.

His male boss told him the next day that I was right about his unibrow (God bless this man), so he came back to me and asked me to get him an appointment to have it waxed. Luckily, I had an appointment later that week, so I called up and they were willing to squeeze him in right after me.

When we arrived to the appointment, he was nervous, so I asked if he could come back with me and watch me get mine done first, thinking he would see that it wasn't too bad. Sure enough, watching me get my eyebrows done put his nerves at ease for when he got his done.

Until the first rip. He started crying. Crying! I don't mean the few reflexive tears that an eyebrow waxing sometimes produces either. I mean all out crying about how much it hurt.

God, I remember this scene so vividly. The relaxing mood music playing softly in the background. Several small, white candles warmly glowing in an otherwise dimly lit room. The smell of lavender and sage hanging in the air. A 6'5", 230lb man crying hysterically about how much pain he was in. A confused and slightly frightened esthetician exchanging awkward looks with me.

He managed to get through the entire process (which was really only like 2 minutes) without running out, but he spent the next three weeks telling everyone how I made him get his eyebrows done. And it was the most painful thing, ever. And that I had no idea how much it hurt. Um, hello? I got mine done right in front of him beforehand.

He resolved to shave his unibrow, thus leaving two uneven eyebrows and some thick stubble between them.

His asinine belief that his rip shod shaving job was on par with the professionals was beyond incorrect, beyond loser. It was pathetic. And his eyebrows, effectively reduced to caterpillars chasing each other through some sparsely populated forests, looked foolish.

But nevermind that, at least I didn't have to see him cry again.

Drink it up

Soda molds. I didn't realize this right away. I suppose it ought to be intuitively obvious – it is wet and sugary. But, I think I had always kept urban legends in the back of my mind about how Coke's acidity makes it a great car battery/highway/toilet/grease cleaner. I realize that none of these are true, but the idea still must have stuck on some level.

Also, there was the fact that prior to dating Shrek, I had never seen, or heard of, a soda molding. Like 99% of the population, after opening a soda, I reseal it, consume it, or dispose of it within an hour. Aside from not wanting to attract flies, there is the issue of a half-empty can of soda being a spilling hazard. Being clumsy, I make a point to not leave anything around that could potentially be knocked-over and create a mess. Shrek did not share my diligence in soda management.

Shrek drank more soda than anyone I have ever met (a combination of this and poor oral hygiene contributed to his nasty-ass teeth, but that is another story). He went through 3 cases of it a week. And this is not counting the sodas he bought from the machines in the dorms, the food court on campus or at Burger King. Shrek was also not known for his cleanliness. His dorm was always messy and dirty.

One day, he had gotten stuck working at the front desk of the building for a lot longer than expected (the person with the shift after him decided to leave town without bothering to tell anyone). I felt a little bad for him and decided to do his laundry since I knew he had planned to when he was done with work. I gathered up about 8 loads worth of dirty clothes (it had been a while) and took over the entire laundry room.

When I went back to his room to put his detergent away, I noticed that his room was really gross. Not wanting to bring clean clothes into a dirty room, I decided to throw away some of the trash lying around. I put all the paper plates and candy bar wrappers sitting around in a trash bag. I then went to round up the 20-some soda cans sitting throughout his room and realized that many of them still had soda inside.

So, I took as many as I could carry (4 – I have small hands) across the hall to the bathroom so I could empty them out in the sink. I poured out the first one. Out came some flat Cherry Coke…and a small white mass.

I assumed it must have been something other than mold. I mean really, who leaves soda cans sitting out long enough to mold?

I poured out the next can and even more white stuff came out. At this point I realized what was going on. I was totally grossed-out by the idea of dumping moldy soda in the sink. But, I was even more grossed out by the thought of Shrek just ignoring them for the rest of the year. So, I opted to continue with my plan of emptying all the soda cans and disposing of them.
Out of all the cans in his room, there were three that had no visible traces of mold inside. Three. I have no idea how long it takes a soda to mold to the degree that some of these had, but I am guessing it is a few months.

The worst part was, even after having a talk about the moldy soda, he did not get any better about cleaning up. The next time I was over (a few days later), there were 6 new open cans sitting on his desk.

Somebody Save Me

Yay for a joint post!

BJA

Disclaimer: This isn't the happiest post.

I had a horrible habit while dating String Bean that I'm disappointed to look back on now. I let him get away with most of the ways he treated me because I thought I needed to save him. My mom called it "broken-wing syndrome." My brother did it with one of his girlfriends, so this isn't simply a habit of women to pick up a partner who has the best of times just as often as the worst of times.

Let me actually explain a few things. String Bean was messed up in the head. He claimed it had to do with where he went to high school and a certain incident that happened on April 20, 1999... most of you should know what that was. He was injured. Plus his parents were divorced, he lived in a volatile family life with no one to look up to (including one uncle who had a restraining order from the rest of the family). He used his past as an excuse to treat me badly. Or maybe I simply used it as an excuse. He was hurtful, violent, judgemental, and possessive. He cheated, lied, yelled, drank, and mentally abused me in ways that today I know I would never accept.

I wish someone had shook me when I dated him and told me how many better guys are out there. Even then, I look back and people I knew did try to help me see it. My parents, his parents, his brother, his friends, my friends... they all told me that he wouldn't change. But I wanted so badly to believe that this man I had fallen in love with, the man I had watched myself grow and change along with and who I had seen what I thought was progress in... I couldn't believe he wasn't the man I "knew" he could be. I was so caught up with the fact that he just had to be the person I thought he was when I first met him - funny, creative, liked going on walks, made me laugh, gave me gorgeous jewelry, danced with me - that I was willing to wait through it all to be the one there for him when he finally acheived it.

I didn't realize that I was trying to be his savior. And the real kicker? I lost friends over it. I lost friends who couldn't bear to see how he treated me and how I treated myself with him. They told me time and time again and I came up with excuses. I thought they were reasons at the time, but they were nothing but excuses.

He cheated because his last girlfriend cheated and he can't open up to women. - No, he cheated because he had no respect for our relationship.

He lied because he had taught himself to cover up his true feelings and didn't want to hurt me. - Nope, he was a compulsive liar who had been lying so long he couldn't stop. And he just didn't want me to know.

He was abusive because he harbored pain and aggression from the shooting. - False. He was abusive because I took it. Because I stood up to him and was in his way.

He drank because he hid his pain through alcohol and hadn't learned to control it. - Wrong again. I even had the stupidity to tell him that song line, "whenever you need something strong, baby, just let me know." If I knew then what I know now...

To any girls who have gone through this - you can't change him. You can't save him. He has to save himself. You can believe all you want that you are the one who will give him the opportunity, the reason, the motivation to change. But you'll be wrong. When he wants to change, he will. But until then you will be hit, abused, cheated on, and otherwise treated as less than the woman you are.

To guys - most of you will never be like this. And I thank God for that. Yeesh, even the guys featured on this blog for the most part will never reach this level of loserex. I mean abusive guys are scraping the barrell!

I don't know what made me write this today. I started talking to an ex of mine and we talked about what we learned from each other and whether or not we learned the MOST from each other. And I have to say, the one who taught me the most about life and love, relationships and myself, was String Bean.

The benefits of this type of blog is we women can vent about things that drove us crazy in our previous relationships. (See CrazyHo for the newly birthed guy version.) Some are the quirky habits that guys can change of course, some are ones that are specific to certain dead beats who most would not imitate, and some are things that perhaps we couldn't deal with, but another girl might. (Think fajitas, early morning booty calls, and tattoos.)

A real man would never do the things String Bean did. No excuses, no reasons, no meds. And I am so happy I figured that out before my boobs started to sag.




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It would be very easy for me to write my horror story of dating Shrek. He was not a good person. There are very few people I honestly feel this way about. In fact, other than Shrek, there is only one person I know personally who I would say is not a good person. While I was dating him, I didn't believe this. I honestly thought that his behavior was a result of his less than ideal upbringing, but that it wasn't ingrained in him -- it wasn't an unchangeable part of his character. I thought he was just waiting for someone to come along and help him. I thought I was going to be the person to do that. By dating him and by tolerating his completely unacceptable behavior, I thought I was saving him. I was really just enabling him.

But, as it has been said before, this is "LoserEx," not "Why My Ex is Going to Rot in Hell." I'm not going to talk about him. The point of my blurb is not to tell the world that Shrek is a horrible person -- everyone else seemed to pick up on that pretty quickly. My point is that you cannot change someone.

On a less serious note: when I met Fred, I saw a lot of things a couldn't stand, but I thought I saw potential to mold him in to the person I wanted to date. Fred was unattractive, slightly overweight, dressed like a retarded child and had absolutely no clue how to behave himself in public.

I thought I would start by pressing the clothing issue. I gave several gentle hints that I did not like the way he dressed. In fact, look back a couple of years on the blog and take note of how many "what not to wear" entries there are. When the gentle hints didn't work, I tried buying him clothes I liked. He would wear them and claimed to like them, yet he never bought similar clothes when left to do his own shopping. I finally banned certain articles of clothing. Specifically the Hawaiian shirts and jorts. He stopped wearing them for a few weeks, then picked right back up again. My grade for changing his fashion sense: F

While this was going on, I decided to work on the area of his appearance as well. Granted, what Fred really needs is a chin implant, but I would never tell someone to get cosmetic surgery. His jaw line was weak and feminine. A chin implant would have given him a better profile and balanced out his other features. Anyway, since I couldn't really bring this up, I tried to suggest other things: a better haircut, bleaching his teeth (they were the nastiest shade of yellow you can imagine), clipping his nails, not washing his face with old spice body wash. He listened to none of my suggestions. My grade for changing his appearance: F

After dating for several months, Fred really started to pack on the pounds. Granted, he was never thin, but HOLY CRAP did he get big. I suggested we do several activities together such as, rock climbing, hiking, joining the new (and really nice) gym next to his apartment and running. He shot down all of my ideas. I would even go to the gym in his apartment building, thinking he would feel motivated to come along. Instead, he spent this time playing on his computer. My grade for changing his weight: F

The worst of all was his inability to behave in any social situation. He was loud, make inappropriate comments and basically was unaware of what everyone else was doing. There is not enough room on the internet for me to mention all the times he proved this. Basically, every time I thought I had him trained enough for a certain social situation, I ended up being wrong. I'll write an entry about this soon, but really, there are too many to mention now. My grade for changing his ability to behave in public: F

Yes, these examples are trivial compared to my problems with Shrek. But, seriously, if stupid trivial behaviors like these can't be changed, it is foolish to think that major character flaws can be.

They saw him rollin', they hatin'

Shrek drove the ugliest car. Bright teal circa 1990 station wagon. Yuck! To make matters worse, he never cleaned his car. It was filled to the brim with fast food bags and half-eaten food. There were soda spills all over the seats and every surface was sticky, squishy, slimy, or otherwise sickening. The worst part of all was the foul stench that hit me like a brick wall every time I opened the car door. I can’t even begin to describe what it smelled like – it is unlike anything I have ever encountered.

I loathed riding in the nasty-wagon. It was repulsive on the inside, and humiliating on the outside. At a school where everyone drove a nice car, the teal nasty-wagon stuck-out like a sore thumb. I would never want Shrek to drive me and my friends anywhere in the nasty thing (side note: it was his mother’s old car, and she gave it to him because she bought a newer model of the same station wagon in the same color – how tasteful). I would suck it up and call a cab before I would ask him for a ride.

After we broke up, I would start to feel nauseous every time I saw the nasty-wagon. Partly because I remembered how sickeningly filthy it was and partly because the thought of Shrek made me sick to my stomach (really gross psychosomatic problem I had for a bit).

Given my situation, you can imagine how thrilled I was when I got word that Shrek was leaving school. I could walk to class and not worry about running into him and having to awkwardly avert my eyes and hope he didn’t try to talk to me. I could eat in the dining hall and not look up to see that he was sitting at the next table. I didn’t avoid bars that I thought he would go to, I didn’t get nervous every time I walked past his frat house.

Three weeks after his departure, I was the happiest I had been in years. To celebrate, I had a me party with some girlfriends at the usual bar. On the way back home, I looked out the window of the cab as we came around the corner of fraternity row. From a few blocks away, I could see the nasty-wagon parked out in front of his frat house under a street light. I started to feel dizzy and short of breath. Then, as we were right in front of it, I noticed that it appeared to have been in a pretty bad accident.

As soon as I got back, I made everyone go back over to look at it some more. Sure enough, the front end of it was smashed. I assume that he could not afford to get it fixed to go home, so he left it at school. Or maybe it was totaled and he just didn’t have time to go through the whole insurance thing (how could he not have time? It’s not like he had a job or class or anything…).

Over the next few weeks, I made a point to walk a little slower when I passed by the nasty-wagon and laugh.

Apparently, others (I later found out, others = his own fraternity brothers, but that is another loser-ex worthy story that I won’t go in to right now) shared my contempt for Shrek.* During the rest of my time in college, I saw the gradual evidence that his car was the target of someone’s on-going vandalism project.

Each window had been smashed out, tires: slashed, headlights: busted, several vulgarities scratched and/or painted over the bright teal body, insides: destroyed. The grand finale was the morning I walked by his car and saw that the hood and the area around the car was black like someone had finally decided to blow it up. Who knew his own frat brothers would go all Carrie Underwood on his ass?

As much as I disapprove of such acts, I have to admit seeing his car in this shape made me feel a little better every time I walked by.

I would imagine that it is no longer there.

* His fraternity brothers couldn’t stand him anymore by the time he left and made this no secret to the rest of campus. The best part about this is the pledge class he wasn’t there to meet (rush was during the time he was leaving) all know him as “Shrek: the asshole.” It makes me almost not hate his fraternity anymore. Almost.

The Tiki God(father)*

Anyone who knows me knows I love costume parties. Unfortunately, the only time I have the opportunity to go to one anymore is on Halloween. But, back in college, there were always sorority and fraternity theme parties going on so I got to put together a costume about twice a month.

Shrek was not a fan of costume parties and would often bail out of going to mine at the last minute. Several times, he would listen to me all week carry on about how excited I was for the party, nod and smile, then wait until an hour before the buses left the night of the event to tell me he was too tired/busy/sick/whatever to accompany me. This would piss the hell out of me and I would go to the parties anyway and spend the night macking on his friends (you’ve got to appreciate the mature, healthy relationship we had).

Then the day I never expected arrived: the day of a party rolled around and Shrek had not bailed on me yet. The theme: Mafia Madness. Shrek and I spent the afternoon at the costume store to find accessories and such to wear to the party. I was stoked when I found some cute mid-sized squirt guns that I would later fill with a bottle of vodka. I also found a hobby horse for pretty cheap that I could cut the head off of and carry around.

Shrek was not impressed with my awesome finds. He told me the squirt guns were a dumb idea and wouldn’t work. Apparently no one would get the horse head either (because, you know, Godfather movies are obscure). In addition to not liking the items I had picked for myself, he did not like the ones I picked for him—a gangster hat, suspenders, a water gun. He spent a very long time milling around the store, ignoring any suggestions I made.

At last, he found something that caught his interests: a bamboo walking cane. No, really. I explained that this really didn’t fit in with the theme. And he insisted it was a good idea. He proceeded to buy an entire luau get-up. The explanation he offered was that he was a retired mafia boss living in Florida. Huh?

I consider myself an expert in costume parties and as such, I feel that my advice is superior to anyone else's on the matter. One thing that I always think about when I put together a costume is “Will people look at this and instantly know what it is?” A costume should not need a story to go with it. It should be obvious what the wearer is trying to be. If someone asks you what your costume is, that means you failed at dressing yourself.

When we arrived at the party, everyone loved my horse head and totally coveted my vodka guns, especially when the lame-ass bar decided to crack-down on the underage drinking at the party (which is unheard of in New Orleans).

People at the party looked at him like he was retarded. I drank myself into oblivion via my vodka guns (which I refused to share with Shrek because he told me it was a dumb idea). Very few people even bothered to ask about his costume. The ones who did asked if he was told the wrong theme.

By the end of the night, Shrek was running around telling people that the reason he was in a Hawaiian get-up was because I am a bitch and thought it would be funny to get him to come to the party in an inappropriate costume, so I told him it was a luau-themed party. Right. Because I totally wanted people to think I am dating a retard.

Someone went home very sober and very alone that night.

* We had some fun naming this entry. CCG was the creator of the title used, but a close second was one I came up with: "Say 'Hello' to my (retarded) little friend." Clearly, this is the inferior of the two titles, but it merits a mention anyway.

Wash that man right out of my hair

In honor of Sanjaya getting kicked off American Idol last night, we figured we'd have an open forum on the hair sins of our many exes. If you want to discuss the hair sins of an ex, please feel free to contribute by emailing us your stories. Or post them in the comments. That works too.

PS I hated Sanjaya. His hair annoyed me.

CCG
I am pretty particular about hair. All hair, but since I don't date women, this post will only be about men's hair. I decided last night, while flipping through Cosmo and watching TV, that I only like men with low-maintenance hair. I don't like "chickenhead", I don't like men with long hair, I don't like men who use excessive products in their hair.

I pay $75 for a haircut. I use $25 shampoo and conditioner and designer straightening cream with my $150 flat iron. Let's not even talk about my highlights. But this is okay because my hair is gorgeous and I am a girl. I don't like girly men. A man should pay no more than $15 for a haircut. He should spend no more than 30 seconds doing his hair in the morning.

My preferred male hair look might just be bald. On the right body, a bald head is really hot (see also: Bruce Willis). It is also manly and I go for really masculine men. But if a man isn't going to go all the way, I like it as short and low-maintenance as possible (officer/gentleman has the best hair possible--he buzzes it at Ranger Joe's and then doesn't mess with it).

There hair sins of my exes are numerous: ponytails, bad coloring, excessive product use, waiting too long for a haircut. But generally speaking:

- No, your ponytail was not hot. Chicks did not dig you with long hair. I never knew you when you had a ponytail but judging from the fact that your hair is now sort greasy and corse, I seriously doubt the "I got out of the shower, put my wet hair in a ponytail that trailed down my back and got on my motorcycle" was a good look for you. Your hair probably had nasty trailer park split ends and was greasy-looking and made you look like you work at the sleazy motorcycle repair shop. You are a frickin' attorney and a very impressive one at that. You have a great job and make great money and look incredible in your Brooks Brothers suits. I thank God you realized that and cut your hair. I also thank God there are no pictures of the offending ponytail that I have to look at.

- No, I do not have any hair gel you may use. If we go on vacation, you are obligated to bring your own grooming products. I don't ask you for a tampon. Also, I don't even use hair gel! Look at my hair--is it sticky and tacky like yours? Then chances are good I do not use your nasty Xtreme Sport hair gel.

- No, your hair does not look good "highlighted" with a bottle of peroxide. It looks brassy, damaged, splotchy and orange. You are very attractive with dark hair--that is why I am dating you. Please don't change that without consulting me first. And NEVER take hair tips from your friend Joe.

- You need a hair cut. Don't even take the time to ask me, just go to supercuts. Chances are if you noticed today, I noticed around this time last week.

- You need to shave. See how red my face and cheeks are? I am not flushed with passion.

- And a final note on body hair. I go through great discomfort and expense to remove mine. You are a big fan of when I do this. The absolute least you can do is take your clippers to the three Bs. Or I know my spa does mens waxing too--I can make two appointments at once. Also, hair coming out of your nose and ears may be a fact of life but for heaven's sake TRIM IT! There is no way in hell I am going to make out with you when I am afraid the monster coming out of your nose is going to bite me in the face.

RGB
I have been fortunate in that no one I have dated actually had bleached hair while we were dating. I did however have a very close call. Shrek was from an area that was rather, um, what's the tactful way of saying "trashy," again? Oh, yeah, rural. Shrek was from a very rural area.

His senior year of high school (before I knew him -- we didn't meet until college), he decided, for some reason completely unknown to me, that he should bleach his hair. Shrek had naturally dark brown hair, so bleached-white was not exactly the best color on him. But nevertheless, he let his 9 year-old cousin do the honor of combing bleach through his hair over the bathtub.

She missed a few spots, but they "weren't noticeable." I really don't know if they were or not because, I did not know him at the time. However, I would imagine that dark brown spots in a white-blond head of hair are, in fact, rather noticeable. But, that's neither here nor there.

I guess the "ladies" of the area in which he grew-up have different taste in men than I do because, Shrek insisted that they totally threw themselves at him even more than usual for the time that his hair was bleached (I think this is a load of crap. Shrek was pretty delusional about his own attractiveness). He therefore rationalized that bleached hair looked good on him. I am grateful I did not know him at the time.

- Oh, and Ex 2 (Fruit Fly) had blue hair before I met him. He wanted to dye it again while we were dating. That got a big "hell no" from me.

- A note on the nose hair issue: please, for the love of all that is good, get some nose hair clippers. I hate when guys decide to take care of their nose hair with a full size pair of scissors -- that's some scary stuff!

- Don't use my shampoo. It was expensive.

- If your hairstyle requires gel, you have a women's haircut.

CMS

Now, I want to preface this by saying that I am pretty open to all kinds of hairstyles in guys, with the obvious exception of super-gelled oh-my-god-are-you-in-the-mafia type hair. I even have a certain affinity for kind of longish, shaggy hair—but not the emo look-at-me-I’m-so-alternative shaggy hair with the side-swept bangs and (probably) streaks of some color not normally found in nature. (Seriously, emo kids make me want to either rip my own eyes out or kidnap them and lock them in a room with puppies and kittens and butterflies while playing nothing but Jimmy Buffet until they suddenly develop the urge to join the cheerleading squad.) But anyway, the point of this is that it’s pretty difficult to have hair so bad that it makes me mad.

But that doesn’t mean that it’s not possible. One of my ex’s (the one who didn’t know how to order wine, if you remember him) had bad hair when we were actually dating. He always gelled it so it stood straight up a la Ryan Cabrera. He also had a weird hairline—it was really uneven and sort of squiggled across his forehead. I guess that wasn’t really his fault, but he managed to emphasize it with his stupid gelled hair. Anyway, his hair was bad back then, but not bad enough as to be a deal breaker.

However, I saw him a few months ago, and his hair has taken a turn for the worst. Apparently, he thought it was a good idea to dye his hair the same color as his skin. So now when he gels his hair straight up, you can’t tell where his forehead ends and his hair begins. His hair looks like an extension of his forehead—like the Elephant Man or something. Just trust me, its bad. To add to this, he has decided to try to grow a full beard, but his facial hair is really patchy so he has weird bald spots all through his beard. It looks like the beard a malnourished hobo would grow.

-As a final note, I’d like to say that I don’t have a problem with facial hair per se. On some people, it looks really good. But please, please, for the love of God and all that is holy, if your facial hair grows unevenly or not at all in some places, shave. Seriously, it’s a sign from God that you are not supposed to have facial hair. Just embrace your babyface and move on.

The first time

Shrek and I had plans to go out to dinner one Friday. Unfortunately, I had a charity event right before which I ended up leaving early and running back home in order to make our reservations. When I got back to my dorm, he was waiting outside. I let him in and agreed to let him check his e-mail on my computer while I quickly changed clothes.

As soon as he sits-down and sees my wallpaper, he freaks.

Him: "What the hell is this?"
Me: "No idea. Hey, are my pink Michael Kors shoes over there?"
Him: "No, what is this on your computer?"
Me: "No idea, what does it look like?"
Him: "Naked men."
Me: "Are you talking about my wallpaper? They're not naked, they're wearing swimsuits"

It was a black and white photo I had gotten off of the Cosmopolitan website that had three men standing in the water at a beach and in pink letters it said "Have a Cosmo summer!" Totally harmless. I would have shown it to my grandmother and not felt embarrassed.

Him: "They're naked."
Me: "It's not like you can see anything."
Him: "I don't like that you're looking at other men."
Me: "Ok, change it."

Note: Shrek had a poster of Carmen Electra in his dorm in which she is wearing what appears to be a bikini bottom and a chain mail tank top. Her nipples were airbrushed out to make it not completely pornographic. I never said anything about it.

While I was none too pleased with the fact he had a scandalous picture of some skank on his wall, I figured that it really was not a huge deal. I mean, it could have been a whole lot worse. It's not like he had piles of dirty magazines with sticky pages under his bed or anything.

I was pretty irked that he would make such a big deal about a goofy picture on my computer, but decided I didn't want to get in a fight over it, so I just kept getting dressed and let him change the wallpaper to a picture of my dog.

A few minutes pass and I am just about ready to go.

Him: "Who is *reads screen name of a male friend from back home*?"
Me: "Oh, that's Mike. Tell him I'm heading out right now"
Him: "Why does he talk to you like this?"

I come over and read the message. It says "Hi RGB. I miss you. When are you coming back home?"

Me: "He's one of my best friends."
Him: "This is bullshit that your guy friends are so friendly with you!"

He went on to accuse me of sleeping with all my guy friends. This did not elicit the most polite response from me. He stormed out. I waited a few minutes and called him. He broke up with me.

I changed my wallpaper back to the Cosmo guys.

We ended-up getting back together two weeks later.

But not before I made-out with one of his friends against Shrek's car.

It was awesome.

That's what friends are for

I mentioned previously that Shrek was an RA in college. Before the start of the academic year, this meant he went through 3 weeks of training. Three weeks seems superfluous, but I assure you if you saw the winners who were RAs, you'd understand why they needed a whole three weeks to teach them a few menial tasks.

Part of this training included B.S. team building activities such as scavenger hunts and craft time (seriously). Basically any cliche leadership retreat activity you can think of, they did. Meyers-Briggs test? Check. Moon survival activity? Check. Desert island? Check. Shrek didn't mind all the training though because he was really good friends with all the RAs. He would always go on about how close they all were. I wouldn't understand the training because I am not in a group of close friends like he was with his coworkers.

It always seemed like the other RAs did not like Shrek much. They would go out and often not tell him. Or all plan to go out on the night he had to patrol. I had a sorority sister who was an RA in the same building and she barely knew him even though he would talk about her all the time. Weird.

The climatic end to their three week training bonanza involved each person writing something nice about everyone else. The lists were then typed-up by their boss who gave each RA a list of anonymous nice things that everyone else had written about them. This simultaneously warms my heart and triggers my gag reflex.

Shrek spent all night working on his list, eagerly awaiting the next day when he would get a list of compliments (he was always fishing for them). The next afternoon, he came to my dorm with the list of compliments. If I hadn't known about this beforehand, I would have thought the assignment was to write a back-handed compliment about the entire staff in as little time as possible.

The compliments on Shrek's paper were things like "Shrek would probably be a good boxer (aside: Shrek had never boxed in his life)," another gem was "Shrek has a unique personality." There were a few variations of "If I were to get in a bar fight, I would want Shrek to be on my side (Shrek was a big guy)." But, the best one of all was "Shrek has a pretty girlfriend."

I think a few people didn't even bother to write something for him (or if they did, it got edited out) because his list had about 10 fewer comments than there were people on the staff.

But the weird thing is, Shrek didn't take the hint and still went on believing that he was the best of friends with every member of the staff. I could not believe how dense he was. I didn't realize it entirely at the time, but I later discovered that nearly everyone he had called his friend really thought he was a huge jerk. After the break-up, I had his RA "friends" and fraternity brothers telling me that he was such a dick and everyone wondered why the hell I put up with him.

Shrek made a point of saving the list. I guess he didn't realize that no one on there said anything that would suggest they even remotely liked him.

If my good friends (or hell, even my acquaintances) had to write nice things about me, I would hope they could come up with something a little better than commenting on how my physical attributes may be advantageous in a very specific situation.

He works hard for the money

Shrek was the worst resident advisor my college had ever known. This didn't stop him from thinking he was really something special. He harbored these delusions that he was bringing order to the chaotic system. Like most RAs, he had the typical power-trip problem. But he took that to extremes. He even went on a 45 minute rant one day about how RAs should get special parking spaces next to the dorms (instead of having to park int he garage like everyone else). This drove me nuts because I could see no reason why an RA would need to park closer to a dorm than anyone else. But I digress.

Shrek really thought being an RA was the pinnacle of prestige at college. He assumed that everyone else coveted his lame-ass job. It's funny that he thought anyone else on campus actually wanted a job. I feel sorry for people who had to work through college.

He only really had three responsibilities: 1) go on patrols of the building; 2) respond to residents' concerns; and 3) make bulletin boards. He sucked at all three. But, his failure at the first two tasks were not nearly as ridiculous as his inability to make bulletin boards.

Every month, he would scramble to put-up some piece of crap. He was often asked to redo his board because it was so bad. One month, he did a bulletin for Hispanic Awareness Month which had a 3-D sombrero made from stuffing crumbled paper under another sheet of paper and drawing a circle around it with a marker. It looked like a lumpy purple tit. He must have realized it looked more like a purple boob than a Mexican hat because he took a marker and wrote "sombrarro [sic] " with an arrow pointing to it.

There was never any real information on his bulletin boards. Just a boatload of speculations which he had made regarding the topic. For example, the Purple Boob board had little blurbs which he had scribbled on with a green marker that said things like "there are a lot of Hispanics in the US today." I am not exaggerating this one. His comments were either obvious or incorrect since he couldn't be bothered to spend 5 minutes looking up anything. Also, despite the fact he had atrocious handwriting, he couldn't be bothered to type a single part of his bulletin boards.

As a result of the crappy bulletin boards and his crappy attitude, the residents decided to draw over his work or rip it down. It was quite an improvement. The first one that got destroyed was about treating women with respect (I find it rather funny that Shrek, of all people, had anything to say about this). Shrek went apeshit. He demanded to his higher-ups that the whole floor be punished for their sexist behavior. His boss, of course, realized that it wasn't a matter of sexism, it was a matter of crappy bulletin boards and told Shrek to fix his board and get over it.

The next several months, Shrek would leave his door cracked open and sit by it, waiting for someone to start tearing down the bulletin board. When he heard them, he'd swing open the door and start screaming at whoever was near the board at the time. This was really quite a sight to see.

I was only there for him catching someone once. He totally chewed the poor guy out. Then, rather than write him up on the spot, he wrote a note on his door board that said "Memo to self: write-up Manny." What a dick. Then, for the next two weeks, every time he saw him in the hall he would make some snarky comment like "I need to write you up still." Really, what a dick.

Of course, this just made it all the more fun for the residents to mess with him. They would wait until he went to class, then destroy the board, fill his door lock with glue and put a condom on his doorknob. This continued for the rest of the year.

Every month, the board was torn down within a matter of hours. Every month, he would go ballistic. I started looking forward to his board getting torn down so I could laugh about how much it pissed him off. Even years after the fact, I still find myself laughing uncontrollably when I think about the temper tantrum he threw over his destroyed purple boob.

The only time the board was not destroyed was when I put it up. This was also the only time the board looked even remotely decent. The guys must have known that someone else did it and decided not to mess with it.

I found it amusing that Shrek put so little effort into a job that he seemed to value so much. Too bad he got fired from it and then failed out of school (for the record, that was all my doing).

I hope Shrek invests more in his beer sales career than he did in the RA gig. Otherwise, I fear he may never get to be the skanky twins' escort at bar promotions.

It Must Have Been the Mistletoe

Back in college, when I actually had free time, I used to make greeting cards for birthdays, thank-you notes and any other occasion which merited a card. I don't mean "make" in the sense of printing off my computer, or even using a sheet of computer paper and drawing on it. My cards were all quite tasteful, and carefully crafted.

One year, I had a particularly cute idea of making Christmas cards that would have a sprig of mistletoe tied to the front with a little red ribbon. On the inside would be red lipstick kiss. I think I may have thought up something corny like "Merry Kissmas" to write on the inside under the big red kiss. Well, it was actually most likely something more creative than that, but that was the general idea of the message.

So, I went to the store, bought heavy cardstock, mistletoe, ribbon and adhesive gold strips for a border. These were going to be the cutest cards, ever! I was so excited about it, I started putting them together as soon as I got home. In the midst of all the cutting, gluing and kissing, Shrek's fat ass wandered over to my dorm.

At first he didn't get it. "Why would you kiss a card that is going to a friend?" I explained to him the tradition regarding mistletoe. He told me that my cards were slutty, and that if he received one from a girl, he would assume she was hitting on him. I believe I have addressed this before, but Shrek always thought everyone was hitting on him.

Apparently he missed the memo on how to actually flirt with someone. I mean, seriously. A girl asked to borrow his notes, and he assumed she was really asking to suck his dick. Two girls asked him for the time, and he thought they were asking for a threesome. A guy held the door open for him and apparently that means that he wanted to be pounded in the ass by Shrek.

We got in a fight about the damn cards, and he threw the biggest temper tantrum imaginable about it. I ended up throwing them in the back of a drawer somewhere. Maybe one day I will make them again.

This time, I will send one to him with the message "Kiss my ass, dickhead!"

A story from Shrek

He no shit told me this once:

Shrek always had beef with Nordstrom, which was a problem for me, because it is one of my favorite stores. His beef stemmed from the following incident.

He was at the Nordstrom in Denver (I know, big vacay for his family). Anyway, a sales person in so many words told him to leave because there was nothing there for him. This still shocks me, and makes me wonder what atrocity he must have been wearing. I have been to nice stores dressed crappily, but never so much so that I was asked to leave.

Anyway, he decided that this called for retaliation. I think he was going for that scene in Pretty Woman when Julia Roberts returns to the store which refused her service, and shows the bags upon bags of Versace which she purchased down the street. Anyway, he didin’t have the funds to pull this off, so he tried to fake it. He told her that he was the nephew of *insert name of some used car dealership guy on those tacky commercials all over Denver* and that he was looking to buy three suits to go to work with his uncle, but he would take his business elsewhere.

To this day it still amazes me that when he tries to not sound like PWT, he just sounds even more like PWT. How sad is it that the least trashy profession he could come up with was used car salesman. What a tool.

I wonder if he went to Applebees after that to drown his sorrows in a plate of riblets.

String me along

When I was younger, I absolutely loved pepperoni pizza lunchables. I don’t eat them anymore. There is something juvenile about the whole process of spreading sauce on the crackers, then putting the cheese and pepperoni-flavored sausage on top. I just can’t get past this.

Shrek had a similar problem with string cheese. I found this out one very tragic day. We were at the grocery store, and I was getting some snacks and sodas. When we walked past the yogurt aisle, he nearly wet his pants at the site of the string cheese. “Oh my gosh! I love string cheese!” he gushed. Being the nice person that I was, I offered to get him a package of it. It seemed like an odd food for him to jizz his pants over, but, hey, everyone likes at least one really strange food.

Well, when I got home, I found out that he was grossed out by the idea of pulling pieces of cheese off the main chunks in strings. Rather than resolve to eat a snack which disgusted him less, he just ate string cheese by eating it in two huge bites. And, he didn’t stop with one. In the time it took me to eat one string cheese, he had eaten the rest of the package. This ranks as one of the top 20 grossest things I have ever seen. Come to think of it, the other 19 grossest things I have ever seen also involved Shrek.

It blew my mind that he could eat a snack of 7 string cheeses, and then have the audacity to make a huge deal out of me eating too much. For the record, I was 5’8” and 110lbs (soaking wet) at the time, and he was 6’4” and 250lbs (and it sure as hell wasn’t muscle). I never made a big deal about this. I am only bringing it up now to point out that if one of us should have been concerned about the other overeating, it should have been me. I have never in my life had a weight problem (I am currently the biggest I have ever been, and that is a whopping size 4). He had always had a weight problem. He was the fat kid who was always the first one out in dodge ball. Granted, he was not morbidly obese, but he had a good deal of chub. I would never comment on his love handles though, because I felt it was not my place to criticize him for that. I honestly don’t know how much smaller he thought I should have been. I don't know how much smaller he thought I physically could have been. Unless he goes to a third world country and finds some emaciated woman on the brink of death, he will not find someone to date who was smaller than I was when I dated him.

I haven’t seen Shrek in nearly 2 years now. Where ever he is, I hope he is dating some fat chick.

It all adds up to nothing.

Shrek had a friend. A female friend. Who was like a sister to him (which is funny because he loathed every one of his female relatives). Anyway, little whiney sister needed a math credit. Actually, big fat asshole did as well, but I'll get to that. Ok, so little whiney sister needed a math credit, and she was too scared to take a big hard math class all by her little self, so she talked Shrek into taking a stats class with her. I never heard the end of what a good friend he was to take this class with her, because he was so good at math. Afterall, he was the captain of his Quiz Bowl team, which placed second to last in the state. He went on and on about how easy this class was for him, but how he was taking it to help out his darling little sister. This annoyed the hell out of me, because I knew that he needed the math credit anyway, and that he was not as damn smart as he kept trying to convince me.

Two years later, me and Shrek have had our drawn-out, dramatic parting. He calls to say he has some of my stuff at his place still, and asks if he can bring it over. I tell him "hell no," and that I will send some people to collect my belongings. My friends return from the darkside with boxes that he has haphazardly thrown items in, and include both my stuff and his. I am annoyed as hell that he is trying to dump his stuff on me. But, since he gave it to me, I figure it is my right -- no -- responsibility to go through it all.

One box has a few notebooks at the bottom, some are mine, and one is his. I go through his notes to see what the ogre even writes down in class, and stumble across an old test tucked between the pages. It is a stats test. From that really easy stats class that he took with whiney little sister. More importantly, it is a stats test which he failed.

Ok, when I said he failed the test, that was a gross understatement. I'm not sure if there is a word for failing epically, but if there is, that is the word I want to use to describe this test. I read through the test, and the answers he gives are out-of-this-world bad! For example, there is a fill-in-the-blank section in the beginning in which a few definitions are given, and the test-taker is to fill-in the word which is being defined. Every single one (there were 8 of them) had the word "statistics" filled in. This was not the correct answer to any of the questions. It only went downhill from there. There was nothing right on this test. It looked like someone had filled it out poorly as a joke. I would have suspected this had it not been graded.

For awhile (during the time we were dating), I wondered how he was failing out of school, since he seemed to think all his classes were too easy for him. He apparently didn't have to try, and got A's on everything. I never saw how this was possible, seeing as one does not fail out of college for getting a 4.0. After seeing this test, it all became clear that he was lying about yet another thing. More importantly though, it all became clear that, contrary to his claims, I am much smarter than he will ever be. I am willing to bet that whiney little sister who can't figure out basic math did better in this class than he did.