Archive | May, 2012

Is the wife PISSED? Hand her bleach and pine sol!!

20 May

I think I should change my blog slogan to, “What’s wrong with you women?”

I’m a woman and I don’t understand the female gender. I get a call from a male friend who needed a someone to talk to as he walked out of the house and the wife screamed in the background:

“You fucking asshole” and “Where are you going?” and “You always run from our problems.”

Don’t worry the wife wasn’t pissed because she thought I was fucking her husband, THANK GOD!! Instead this particular wife was mad because he left the lid of the milk carton on the kitchen counter before he put it back in the fucking refrigerator.

Seriously?

And she wanders why he’s leaving the house? Who would want to stay and listen to this shit for leaving the top off the milk carton???

In unnecessary and nonsense fights like this almost always the man leaves the domain to clear his head and to give the wife time to “cool off”, when he really wants to strangle the bitch and hit the “divorce” button that is if one were to exist.

An hour later the “wife” is texting him saying she’s “sorry”, begging him to come back home and when he does she’s still giving him the cold shoulder and the “fuck you” look.

Sound familiar?

Why do you need a doctorate’s degree to become a psychologist to figure this shit out? I don’t get it.

Women need to just shut the fuck up and walk away, or leave the house and come home a few hours later with 10 new pairs of shoes that the husband would normally complain about but would not at all care if it successfully shut the bitch up.

Or

Women need to adopt MY mind-set and ask themselves, “What would Priscilla do?”

In every live-in relationship I have had the “spouse” would make sure the “back-up” supplies of bleach and pine sol were well stalked.

I may push men away before we get to the “relationship” stage but after the committment has been made, I have learned to shut the fuck up.

When pissed, and I mean ROYALLY pissed, no matter what the circumstance and reasoning may be, if the “spouse” comes home and or seeing me with bleach and pine sol in my hand aggressively cleaning the house he knows to leave me the fuck alone.

After a few hours of deep cleaning and sweating my anger away I am now too tired to remember what the fuck I was mad about in the first place. I will then lay in the arms of my ‘spouse” tell him I love him and probably fuck his brains out to relieve any excess anger I may have

The result:

1. He didn’t leave the house.

2. I didn’t bow down and say “I’m sorry”

and

3. No hurtful words were exchanged.

SO WHY DON’T YOU WOMEN UNDERSTAND AND COMPREHEND THIS SIMPLE YET COMMON SENSE LOGIC?

Oh, yes I forget….because us women are fucking drama queens!!!

The only reason to bitch at your spouse and piss him off is if your sole intention is for the ‘make-up” sex. That I can’t argue with, it FUCKING GREAT!!!

What happens if you send me a picture of your dick…..

11 May

Image

***BEWARE: PICTURES ARE HIGHLY GRAPHIC***

(Sorry but I’m in a fiesty mood)

Six months ago if a guy sent me a picture of his dick on POF, I would immediately block him and delete the worthless small dick I wouldn’t have fucked anyways.

A month later all dick photos entered my “Dick Hall of Shame” and referred them to www.adultfriendfinder.com (I was curious to see how many dicks I could accumulate and who knows when I may need visual aid.)

Then three months ago all dicks continued to enter my gallery but I would send the following picture and tell them this is my mother:

Image

But now when I am honored to receive another picture of a dick I do the following:

I accept his invitation to dinner and drinks, flirt, rub my hands on his thigh as I work upward in the direction of his cock, grope him, blow and whisper how bad I want and need his cock inside of me. He gets the check and pays, we walk out of resturant and he asks, “my house or yours?” I drape my arms around his neck and in a sad face I say:

“I can’t tonigt I’m in outbreak.”

Him: Outbreak of what?

Me: Herpes

Him: We can use a condom

Me: No its not safe

If he continues then I say:

LOOK MOTHER FUCKER, DO YOU WANT YOUR DICK TO LOOK LIKE THIS?

Image

In three months 194 dicks have entered my “Dick Hall of Shame” and I don’t want another!!

If you don’t want blue balls, don’t send me a picture of your dick!!

This man needs a CUSTOM-MADE glove for his DICK…..latex is NOT enough protection!!!

10 May

I have learned through trial and error during my dating adventure to think outside the box when asking the “getting to know you” questions.

For example, I ask every guy:

1. Are you bi-sexual and or have bi-sexual tendencies?

2. Have you been to prison?

3. Would it turn you on to drink my piss?

4. Do you desire to wear my panties?

Most men laugh and think it’s humorous that I ask such “ridiculous” questions as they call it but if only they knew the shit I have been asked, witnessed and propositioned.

I have now added the following question:

 

What’s your sex number?

A good guy friend of mine recently gave me some VERY wise advice. He said:

“Every man you date and definitely before you sleep with them, ask how many women they have slept with.”

 

What’s the pont, I though? Men are going to lie about it anyways. Yes, I know to multiply the number a guy gives me by 9 which will reveal the ACCURATE number of they’re sexual partners but shit, that’s too much math I care to calculate.

Before I continue I will go ahead and tell you my number. A year go it was 5, when I turned 30 and adopted the sex drive of a 17-year-old boy, my number is now 5+35.

 

Go ahead all onlinedatingjournal haters whom are all women, voice your opinion in the “comments” section of this post that I’m a “whore” OR how “Disgusting” I am. (I do strongly suggest you wait until you read this ENTIRE post before making your judgemental comment.) Bitch, your “whoring” days are just around the corner because most of us are grateful to experience the “sex phase.” Guys you know what I’m talking about. Wink. Wink.

Back in the day when my sex list consisted of one name, it was VERY important to me and asked every guy:

“How many women have you slept with?” I got the following answers:

Guy 1. Nine 9X10=90

Guy 2. Fourteen 9X14=126

Guy 3. Forty 9X40=360

Guy 4. Hundred 9X100=900

 

(I did not continue to date Guy 4 because his number was WAY too high without the calculation.)

 

I recently met a guy from POF for a few drinks and dinner after three hours of texting back and forth. He wasn’t the greatest looking guy that has escorted me but definitely was not ducking and dodging to uphold my image. Aside from already being a very blunt person, he too wasn’t afraid to honestly speak his opinion.  He was also very easy to talk to which is why I didn’t hesitate about asking him questions 1-4 as stated above. (Note: When asking these questions I always observe body language, hesitation, stumbling words, or if he looks away when answering the question.)

“Fuck No,” he proclaimed to all of the above. My observation when asking these questions did not give me a reason to think otherwise.

Then I asked the question my friend recommended I ask:

“How many women have you slept with?

Silence…….

I obviously struck a nerve I thought. I sensed hesitation when he took a deep breath, appeared to be uncomfortable when he looked around thinking of what to say and his body language became very jittery.

He takes a deep breath, takes a few gulps of his beer, leans back in the booth, looks me dead in the eye and says:

“I’m not going to tell you just yet.”

“Why,” I asked?

He is now starting to get a little fidgety and is becoming irritated that I’m being so persistent that he answer the question.

“Can’t you get to know me first before asking me that question,” he pleaded.

I told him it was a fair and appropriate question to ask and reminded him we all go through the “whoring” phase.

He takes another deep breath and chugs the half filled glass of beer until it’s empty and points to the glass for the waiter to see he needs a refill. He leans forward in the booth and says:

“When I was in the military, the pay was horrible making only $1200 a month.”

Okay I thought

“For extra money I started working in porn.”

Okay…..this is getting slightly interesting and or scary, not sure which just yet. I had never met a man who was in porn or one who openly admitted it.

“It was excellent money. They paid 2k a session and you could have four or five sessions in one day,” he said.

Okay……keep going I thought giving him the look………..

“In Korea alone I probably slept with about 4,000 women”

Okay, I was thinking around the ball park number of two-five hundred but……

4,000 women in Korea ALONE?????

HOLY SHIT!!!!

Hell I’m an armature if not almost a virgin when I put my 40 next to his 4000!

Okay, so let’s do the math:

4000 X 9= 36,000

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?? I’M SURPRISED HIS DICK HASN’T FELL OFF!!!!

I didn’t bother to ask his TOTAL number, preferred not to know!!

I may be a little” horny whore” these days and hesitant to reach the three digits but NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER will the number of my sexual partners get to the four digits!!!

Someone needs to invent a HEAVY DUTY std glove to put over this man’s dick because latex is NOT enough protection!!!

I wanted to tell him if he ever wants to get laid don’t reveal this number to ANYONE, on the other hand, WOMEN NEED TO KNOW AND BE WARNED!!!

I want to thank my guy friend for suggesting to ask the question that turned out to save my life. I also want to thank this man for giving me an HONEST answer.

I was polite throughout the rest of the date, afterall I owed this man my life for his honesty!! After dinner he walked me to my car and asks:

“Can I see you again?”

I gave him the “Are you fucking serious” look. He got the hint and then asks:

“Do you have any hot, single girlfriends you could hook me up with?”

All you onlinedatingjournal haters, NOW you can tell me I’m how I’m a DISGUSTING WHORE!!

I want to file a restraining order against one of your police officers, I told the Chief of Police. HELP….HE’S STALKING ME!!!

4 May

I first want to say, I am not an arrogant woman, nor do I think my pussy is made of gold, but apparently some men do.

When I walked into the office of the Chief of Police with my boss as my witness, I feared the police officer I had met from n online dating website would soon rape, kill and butcher me, leaving my remains undiscovered and me forever being a “Missing Person” rather than a murder victim.

The Chief of Police asked why I wanted to file a restraining order against one of his “noble” and “well-respected” officers among the small community in which we both worked.

I gave the following statement with a detailed log of events, texts, missed calls, voicemails and pictures, which clearly explained why this “noble” and “well-respected” DEMON is mentally incapable of wearing a badge and carrying a gun.

I met the angelic 31-year old police officer at a bar/restaurant one evening after work. Like me, he has never been married, no kids, and we had both recently moved to Dallas from Orlando.

I walked into the restaurant, spotted the man at the bar wearing a black shirt, jeans and sitting next to two ladies as he accurately described. When I tapped him on the shoulder, he swung his bar stool in my direction and I was pleasantly surprised that the military demeanor his pictures portrayed really did him no justice.  He was smoking HOT!!! Now my only obstacle was keeping my hands to myself and not leading him to the bathroom so he could fuck the shit out of me. He welcomed me with a hug and smile.

“You are absolutely beautiful,” he said pushing my bar stool closer to him.

I blushed. (I could foresee it will be a fun and pleasurable night.)

I ordered my first mixed drink when he confessed he was on his 6th Red Bull and Vodka. Sixth, I thought? Wow!!!

For the next ten minutes the following was our dialogue:

9:04PM Him: You are beautiful.

9:04PM ME: Thank you, I said blushing

9:05PM Him: Wow, hmmm….hmmmmm….hmmmm, you are a pearl, he said looking me up and down and undressing me with him eyes

9:06PM ME: Thank you I said yet again still slightly blushing

Between 9:07PM-9:15PM I counted 16 times he said “You are beautiful,” which averaged every 30 seconds.

The fifth time was enough, the eighth was annoying, the 12th I needed another drink and the 16th time he told me”I was beautiful” he quickly moved from my HOT radar to DESPERATE. Is he drunk? I couldn’t tell. He appeared to be functioning normally, no slurring words, eyes not red, good posture. Either he is exaggerating about his alcohol intake or he has a high tolerance.

Now he wanted to do shots. He was already on his 7th red bull and vodka and I didn’t think that was such a wise decision given his career. I politely declined and explained how I already had two very stiff mixed drinks and have a 35 minute drive home in severe thunderstorms that could result in tornados according to the weather. Surely being a cop he would understand, but nope.

“Come on, please, have fun,” he begged.

After ten minutes of listening to his pathetic plea for me to do a fucking shot I surrendered to shut the asshole up.

“Here’s to us,” he saluted as he downed his shot of tequila AND half of my shot that I did finish.

He wanted to continue taking shots but this time I didn’t surrender.

“NO, I have to drive home,” I said.

I quickly learned the word, “no” was not in Officer Smith’s vocabulary. He was quick to come up with a solution to get me drunk, have meaningless sex, which he wouldn’t have to do if he only acted SANE!

The following was his brilliant plan:

“You only have fun once right? So how about we do this; don’t worry about your alcohol intake, drink, have fun and I will drive your car back to your house and take a cab back to me car”.

Okay, back up. Let’s think this through

  1. The way you want me to drink, I will still be drunk when I go to work in the morning.
  2. You think I am going to let YOU drive my car now that you’ve had 12 vodka and red bulls and 1 ½ shots of tequila?
  3. I live 35-40 away which would easily calculate to $100 cab ride EACH WAY.
  4. And you think I am that stupid to not realize your hidden agenda of getting me drunk and fucking me when I’m half conscious???

He continued to explain his logic was reasonable, but I had a different theory.

A. He was already stupid drunk

B. Highly desperate to get laid

Or

C. Just a stupid fucking idiot.

I ignore he silly logic, pick up the menu which was staring at me for the last hour now. I was starving. I started browsing the menu when he said, “What are you doing?”

ME: I’m going to order some dinner. Are you not hungry?

HIM: We already ordered he said with a confused look on his face.

Okay, now I’m confused and a little worried.

He picks up my glass of vodka and cranberry and says, “Your cut off, you’ve had a little too much to drink.” He said laughing.

This guy is delusional. It was my first time at the restaurant, hadn’t picked up the menu until now so how could I have already placed my order, I thought?

After ten minutes of arguing about how we hadn’t ordered food, I waved the bartender over.

ME: Did we order food

BARTENDER: Not with me you didn’t

HIM: Yes we did

BARTENDER: Ummmm…..I’m the only bartender, did you place an order with a waitress?

Silence……he scooted my drink he had confiscated back to me. He changed the subject and we never ordered food.

For the next 35 minutes he talked and talked and talked. I never got a word in. For example, he talked, asked me a question, continued to talk, asked me another question and talked some more.

Finally there was a pause and I began to answer the first question he asked 35 minutes ago.

ME:I think…..

Him: EXCUSE me I was talking, please don’t interrupt me, it’s very rude.

He said this in a very loud and stern tone that the people sitting beside us at the bar stopped and turned our direction.

Whoa, this date is over I thought.

He excused himself to go to the little boy’s room. I had already started gathering my purse and keys ready to sneak out. The man sitting beside me at the bar asked if he wanted me to walk to me to my car referring to abandoning this psychotic drunk ass.

“No, I’m going to make a run for it,” I told him. It was too late. I spotted the demon walking back to the bar. When he returned I told the officer I was tired, slightly buzzed and needed to go home.  He said he would walk ne to my car. When we got outside I hugged and thanked him. But no he wanted to escort me to my car and I said no. We stood in the pouring rain and argued about this stupid conversation, meanwhile the guy sitting at the bar next to me was watching us from the glass door of the restaurant. Finally officer Smith gave up went back inside and I got in my car and drove off

“Is that all,” the police chief asked in a very condescending one?

NO ASSHOLE THAT’S NOT ALL!!! (I wanted to say but obviously didn’t.)

Now I whip out my phone and SHOW him the proof.

Day 1 After the Date

I get the following text:

Him: I’m sorry about last night I was a little drunk

ME: It’s okay. It was nice to meet you good luck J

HIM: So you’re not going to give me another chance

ME: No, sorry, you’re really not my type. (At least I didn’t give him a bullshit excuse.)

The remainder of the day he sent me the following text messages:

“You fucking bitch” (14)

“I’m sorry” (8)

Missed calls (9)

And three voicemails that said “Call me now.”

Day 2 After the Date

I woke up to the following text message:

“Good morning my luv, call me when you can”

My response was:

“I thought I made it clear to you yesterday I am not interested. Please don’t call or text me again. Thanks”

For the remainder of the day I received the following:

“Bitch you don’t want to fuck with me” (13)

“Talk to me” (24)

Missed calls (14)

“Hello anyone home” (30)

“?” (154)

I am now getting worried…..

Day 3 After the Date

At 12:00PM I get the following text message:

“I’m going to grab some lunch, care to join me?”

I don’t reply

Then the next two hours and yes it may be just a coincidence but my work phone received over 50 hang up calls.

At 1:30 when I returned to my office from lunch my supervisor said I had a cute police officer with flowers waiting for me in my office.

Of course it was him. I thanked him for the flowers, told him I would talk to him as I walked him out of my office and to his car. My main priority was getting him out of my office, away from my nosy coworkers incase it got ugly.

I rehashed what I already told him, he called me a bitch a few times, sped out of the parking lot in his patrol car and I closed my supervisors office door and began to explain why he is never allowed back in this office building and the numerous hang ups we had received that she had commented about the day before..

Day 4 after the first date

Nothing. FINALLY, he got the hint I thought.

Day 5 after the first date

12:30: He walked into the restaurant my boss and I was having lunch and sat by himself at a booth adjacent from us.

For the remainder of the day his patrol car was spotted driving around the parking lot of my office building and with the help of coworkers pictures were taken. (This was not the beat he patrolled)

630PM: He was behind me while I stood in line at the grocery store. (I asked a nice and huge African American man who was walking out in front of me if he would walk me to my car, he did….thank you.)

Day 6 after the first date

No calls, no texts and no voicemails.

4:00PM: I walk outside my office building to smoke a cigarette. I felt someone grab my arm behind me. I turn around and it was him. “Please talk to me,” he said crying.

“No,” I said jerking my arm away.

My supervisor had just pulled into the parking lot from a brief work errand. She runs over to me and tells him to leave or she will call the police. He leaves.

Now 20 minutes later I am sitting in the office of the Police Chief telling him the exact events as they happened with pictures, text messages, voicemails and a witness as evidence as to why this psychotic government official is not mentally capable of wearing a badge and carrying a gun.

The police chief leans back in his chair and says, “I am sorry, he will be reprimanded.”

“Reprimanded? How so,” I asked?

The police chief now leans forward and says, “He will be given a very stern verbal warning.”

VERBAL WARNING??? Are you fucking kidding me????

So you’re telling me I cannot utilize my first college degree as a forensic scientist because I made a horrible mistake 11 years ago when I drove drunk and got a DWI, but you will continue to allow this mentally and psychotic man wear a badge and carry a gun who is suppose to make sure the law is followed and serve as a role model to society???

THAT’S FUCKED UP!!!

Officer Smith did however teach me one valuable lesson in the event I get pulled over for speeding.

If I get pulled over and an officer asks why I was speeding I say;

“Because one of your friends fucked my brains and pussy dry last night and I’m in desperate need to get to the chiropractor.”

This excuse has worked twice so far.

Thanks Officer Smith!!

My Last Day as a Stripper……

2 May

 

(WARNING: I am about to share a true story that forever changed my life 10 years ago on May 1, 2002. Please bear with me because this was hard to write. I hope I don’t make you cry)

 

I try to call your mother but there is no privacy. I walk to the front of the strip club and police are roping off the crime scene with yellow and black tape. I go round to the back of the building and police are everywhere searching for evidence. I walk back inside and your friends and co-workers are crying and being interviewed by law enforcement. I head for the dressing room, the same trail you and I walked hundreds of times beside one another. I enter and lock the bathroom stall behind me as I clutch onto my phone, not prepared to make the call to your mother, after all you are only 20 years old.

 

I dial, the phone rings, and your mother answers with the ’you woke me up’ tone.
I say nothing, I only cry.
Her: Priscilla is that you?

 

I’m choking on my tears.
Her: What’s wrong? What happened?              

 

Me: Ty… (Crying)….ler….h… (Crying)…e’s…de…. (Crying)….ad
Her: What? Oh my God, what happened?
I could hear her wake up your father who was lying in bed beside her to break the bad news.
Me: Mrs. Long, your son is dead because of me. I’m so sorry, I said still weeping uncontrollably.

 

It was an ordinary day at the apartment. We were both scheduled to work, you as the dance manager and I as another unreliable ‘stripper’ who hated her job. Remember you often had to drag my lazy ass to work? I made many excuses to avoid taking my clothes off for another disgusting stiff dick who would go home and jack off thinking about the naughty lap dance I had given him.

 

This particular day my excuse consisted of studying for my final exams and having spent the night hugging my pillow while I watched old sappy love movies, which you hated.
You slapped my feet as they rested comfortably on the coffee table and said “Get your ass up, you’re going to work with me.” We debated on the subject for an hour. Aside from trying to convince me the money would be good because it was a Saturday night, and I needed to make my car payment, that I obviously didn’t have, your real reasoning for dragging me to work that day was because you liked working with me. I was your partner in crime, your best friend, roommate, co-worker and college classmate. Sometimes you gave up during our debate on this subject but most of the time you won.

 

My complaining about working that day continued during the two-mile drive to work. You firmly clinched my leg and with a smile you said, “It will be fun, trust me.” You pulled your car in the parking lot, where the pink flashing billboard sign of a naked woman stood, gave your keys as usual to Rob, the valet guy who was your second best friend and together we walked up the steps leading to the double doors we both dreaded entering and referred to as hell.

 

Once in the dressing room you immediately interrupted a cat fight with two of the “day time” dancers. I joined my fellow strippers on the bench, staring at myself in the mirror wandering why I let you talk me into coming to work when I could be at home watching Seinfeld. You checked the dance list and called to recruit more dancers, I continued to drag ass to get ready only wondering which Seinfeld episode I was missing.
“You better hurry up, you’re on main stage next,” you said slightly yanking my ponytail flirtingly.
“Yeah, I heard the DJ,” I replied.
You chuckled, sat next to me and said, “Do I need ask the DJ to cover for you again?”

 

You are referring to the fact my makeup is not yet fully applied, my hair not curled and my dress and 7 inch stripper shoes are still in the locker I have not yet opened.
“I told you before we left the apartment I didn’t want come,” I said applying the blush again to my already rosy cheeks.

 

There were a few seconds of silence, you still sitting next to me facing the lockers and me still staring at my disgusting self in the mirror when you said, “I tell you what, if you’re on main stage within five seconds after Ruben (the DJ) calls your name I promise not to kick out any of your customers tonight.”

 

Now you have my attention….

 

You had been suspended twice, hospitalized once, suffered a fractured rib and put many of my male customers in the hospital for touching me inappropriately, not to mention interrupting my cash flow. Any other stripper it was three strikes and you were out but me, my customers were thrown own without a fair warning.

 

“So what do you say,” you asked?

 

“Deal.” I said, and we shook on it. (Remember this ASSHOLE????)

 

“Then get your ass on stage,” you said this time flirtingly slapping my ass.

 

You stood ten feet back from main stage smiling and giving me the thumbs up sign when I entered main stage with a second to spare. The night went smoothly, you did not fuck with my customers as you promised, and thanks to our hand shake I was making money. At 1AM our eyes met. We were both proud of one another. I was on time when I entered the main stage and you hadn’t yet grabbed one of my customer’s balls and kicked them out as you usually did.  I did spot you several times lurking during a few of my lap dances, but you kept your cool and were true to your promise. And your reward for such good behaviour was when I blew you a kiss and you caught it smiling.

Then fifty-two minutes before closing time I approached the table I now regret. I sat in the lap of one of the four Hispanic men who could barely speak English and who gave me a $20 tip on main stage.  It was easy and fast money considering there was a language barrier. I gave the man in the white shirt at the table $320 worth of lap dances, who was drunk and incredibly horny, which explained his inappropriate, touchy behaviour.

 

I spotted you several times while dancing for him and watched you shift your weight from one foot to the other, trying to hold your end of the deal and reframe from kicking the asshole out of the club. I gave you the, “I got this, I’m a big girl” glance and you hesitantly backed away.  I gave him five dances and took a break, five more and another break. Then mid way in twelfth dance the man leaned forward and bit my nipple. Remember? There was no time to respond, you had already grabbed my shoulders, pushed me back, twisted the man’s shirt and literally carried him out of the club with the man’s shoes a good ten inches from the floor.

 

You lost and I won, I thought laughing to myself. You surrendered with only ten minutes until the party was over. I stood at fourth stage by the front door as I covered my breasts with one hand, and held my clothes in the other, standing only in my T-back awaiting for you to come back in to give you shit about losing our bet.

 

Then I heard the DJ announce bubble gum shots in the parking lot, code word for fight. Three managers run past me and out the front door almost knocking me over. The double doors to the entrance swing open and I briefly see your 6’6, 295 pound body lying on the brick concrete in front of the main entrance.

 

I run towards you.

 

I am now standing over your head as I watch a river of your blood stream down the front steps of the club. I kneel beside you still only wearing my T-back. Your white button down shirt revealed one bullet hole, then another, and another. There were too many gunshot wounds to count. I lay my body onto yours in hopes to stop the bleeding; I didn’t even notice our fellow co-workers wrapped a blanket around my bare body. I can now hear the sirens getting nearer. I perform CPR but you’re still not breathing.

 

 Then I look into your eyes and realized you are dead. Your energetic and enthusiastic spirit we all love was no longer glowing. I scream, I cry, I shake you to come back to me but no response. I feel someone or something pulling me away but I fight, I cling onto you with all my might hoping you will come back to me. But you don’t. You continued to lay there lifeless as I was covered in your blood.

 

After five hours of sobbing, watching paramedics cover you with a black blanket and being interviewed by the police, I get in your 76 Ford Mustang you named ‘Suzie’, your baby you would never let me drive, despite how many times I pleaded. The same car you drove us to work in that day and were supposed to drive us home in. An investigator was worried about me driving due to my devastation of your death and followed me back to ‘our’ but now ’my’ apartment.

 

My head is pounding from crying but I don’t care and with the little energy I had left I walked up the stairs to the second floor of our apartment, the same steps we walked down together 15 hours earlier. I hold your keys, the same key you locked our apartment with when we left, and the key you were suppose to use when we got home. Our front door swings open. I want to plop on the couch and you massage my feet like you do every night after we get home from work, but you’re not here. The shoes I asked you to take to your room before we left are still firmly planted on the living room floor. You said you would put them up when we got home but you can’t, you’re no longer here. I go throughout the apartment and turn over every picture of ‘us,’ I even threw our 1st place mud race trophy through the glass patio door. I enter your room and can still smell the cologne you sprayed on before we left. I collapse on your bed as I often did when you held me as I cried about a guy or failed a test.

 

For the next two days my tears soaked your pillow.

 

I am so FUCKING mad. I don’t know who to be angrier at, you or your killer!!! Why didn’t you fucking listen to me??? I didn’t want to go to work that day!! I’m a big girl, I can ward off evil and perverted men, and you don’t always have to protect me!!! If you hadn’t drug me to work that day and or stuck to our deal you would be laying beside me right now.

 

I HATE YOU!!! I cry harder.

 

“Yes, I do need to protect you. You’re my best friend,” you would say with a smile.

 

I didn’t go to your viewing. I didn’t think I could hold it together. I arrived 15 minutes late to your funeral. It was standing room only. I spotted your mother sitting at the first pew of the church and squeezed beside her. Tears rolling down both our cheeks, she took my hand into hers and we shared the, “I miss, and love him” look. That was the last thing I remember at your funeral. I blacked out. Our friends say I tried to jump in the coffin with you, shook you, begging for you to wake up, but I don’t remember any of that.

 

Apparently I didn’t snap back to reality until I was standing amongst your friends and family at the gravesite. You were being lowered into the ground, with thousands of red roses that had been gently laid on top of you by each and every one of us when we got the call….. The man who shot and murdered you was caught and now behind bars. But still justice has not yet been served.

 

May the man who killed you rot in hell and you rest in peace. In less than a year I will be sitting front row for the best movie I will ever watch. When the poison is injected into your murderer, and I watch his life being taken away as he took away yours. That is the day justice will be served and I will smile again.

 

After the funeral your mother gave me your daily journal that I never knew you had. She said she felt bad because she thought she was invading your privacy. She continued to say it would be in my best interest to read it that is when I was ready.

 

A year after you died I got a bottle of wine, poured a glass and opened your journal I had safely tucked away waiting for this moment. I read how much fun you had during our trip to Florida and how you planned my surprise birthday party. All your entries made me laugh, cry or both.

 

Then I read what you wrote two days before you died.

The day after you were murdered you had a special evening for the two of us. We were to have a romantic dinner at the restaurant, “The Craft” and stay in a penthouse suite at the Crescent Hotel in downtown Dallas.

 

I continue to read….I cry if not harder than the day you died.

 

I close your journal weeping about what I had just read. I couldn’t believe it. You were my best friend and nothing more….

 

My answer is yes, I will marry you! I only wish I could tell you in person.

 

I love you and always will.
Tyler Long April 12, 1981-May 1, 2002

On 13 August 2012 22:08, Priscilla Hayes <priscillahayes2007@yahoo.com> wrote: