Dick in a Box

Dear Diary

As the clock strikes twelve tonight I will turn back into a pumpkin, my chariot will turn into a mule and my glass slipper will disappear.

Nahh who am I kidding... as the little dials in my clock both focus on 12, I will turn another year older.

Oh god.

I need Botox.

No pumpkins, mules or glass slippers for me, except one ass that was my chariot earlier tonight.

He picked me up in his father's black truck.

Staring at him at the driver’s seat, I can’t recall what in the name of God compelled me to accept this proposal.

I guess that’s how you know when you’re truly over someone. The features I once used to adore shed away the perfect light that was casted on them and the truth was revealed. I secretly wish he had some narcotics or was the master of hypnosis. I can’t believe I’m about to fuck him sober. I keep fluffing my thoughts with images of Jake Gyllenhaal hoping that those images will blind me for the next 2 hours of me fucking my ex.

Honestly, looking back I can’t think of the reason why I was so drawn to him. Actually forget that, I know what it was. The rumors of his large penis. I don’t know what it is about me but I’m as gullible as George Bush’s voters. I never learn from my lessons either.

At least this time around the penis was adequate enough. So I stayed and we had a mediocre relationship that consisted of me giving him everything I had and him taking everything without gratitude or giving anything in return.

When it ended I let out a sigh of relief... my biggest fear with him has always been that one day he would run away with another man... or a broom.

The reason I’m saying this is because there were signs all along the way.

For instance he had a strange fascination with household products.

The first week of us talking he sent me a video of him shoving, what appeared to look like a broom stick covered in a condom, up his anus.

I once caught him masturbating to a Home Depot catalogue.

I know! You’re all thinking ‘why didn’t you run away then Anna?!’ but honestly it’s my entire fault. I always try to not be judgmental and be very open sexually, but now looking back I think I’m doing him a huge favour by sharing this. It might give him the courage to come out of the closet.

“hey, what’s up?” he says, and my eyes focus on a box on his lap.

“what is that?” i ask

He lifts the cover of the shoe box and reveals his soft wrinkly uncircumcised penis.

*shudder*

“it’s your birthday present...it’s a dick in a box”

Ha.....

Ok, breathe... and at this moment I know exactly how Chris Brown felt.. I never wanted to hit a woman harder.

“haha” I laugh dryly, masking the anger inside. Is this a joke?! I spent close to a $1000 dollars on your birthday present and you get me a converse shoe box with a hole in it with your penis that looks like a deflated balloon animal, sticking out of it? I swear if I had no self value I’d prick that condom before we fuck, get pregnant and live off your child support payments for the rest of my life. But I’m not OctoMom and I have no desire to bring a child into this earth that looks like Adam Sandler, because with your genetics you know it would too.    

At this point my pussy is dryer than the Sahara desert and I pray he crashes his father’s truck into the street light so I can just run back home. Oh, but cheapo didn’t even get me sneakers in that box so I guess I’ll walk.

We find an isolated parking lot and get straight to the point. He obviously doesn’t last long because he can never get any... and the brooms and plungers in his house are all packed away since he’s in the process of moving.

Chatting on the way back home he comes up with the genius idea that we should get back together. Even Vince Offer couldn’t sell me that idea, and he sold the idea that a hooker bit his tongue to a judge and some Shamwows and the Slapchop. Really I’m just not interested in having my man cat walk in my clothes like a Victoria Secret angel whenever I’m out of the house.

Very lightly I dismiss his idea trying not to hurt his oh so fragile feelings. There’s too much estrogen in the air. And he’s gone...

I swear that this is the last time.

It’s 12:00 now and I am a year older.

I am also wiser now.

I hear you’re running your mouth about me, so this diary is my outlet.

Oh wait I forgot, I don’t have a diary.

And if this doesn’t serve as a warning, you’ll be receiving a UPS package at your work with the dildos and strap-on I used to fuck you with... and maybe I’ll throw in a Schticky... I hear it has a sturdy handle.