If you were logged in, you could vote for this story!
|Gather 'round children. Let me tell you a story. Some would call it a horror story, others call it a story with an important message. |
I call it the story of the man with no balls.
|Once upon a spring break ago, grandtheftcondom was going through a rather intense period of insomnia. Days had passed, and no sleep came. Piddling about on several different websites, just wasting time doing nothing, she came across an acquaintance that happened to be online.|
Victory! Someone to talk to who wasn't sleeping either! Finally interaction with someone who is not under two and drooling. Not that grandtheftcondom disliked her own offspring, but simply did not enjoy the one-sided conversations she had with her daughter. A few days passed of chatting up her acquaintance while she waited for the bout of insomnia to pass, and after a time determined that texting would be faster, more reliable, and less taxing on the laptop that should have been retired sometime ago.
Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, No grandtheftcondom! Don't give your information out while on a website! You don't know if this person is a psycho or not! True. She did not know for sure if her online pal was a psycho or not. Then again, whenever you meet someone new you can't really certain if they are a psycho or not. Many great and long-lasting friendships had been made by taking a leap of faith just like this one. So she gave this guy, we'll call him Mister Monday, her phone number.
Fortunately, said guy was not a random internet psycho. It became fun to stay up late and chat about music and partake in the occasional flirting. She realized that this guy lived THOUSANDS OF FUCKING MILES AWAY and no matter what was done, no harm, no foul. No one was breaking any rules here. Grandtheftcondom was being good, what with her being in a relationship and all. Whether or not Monday was in a relationship didn't count for shit since they weren't doing anything, so grandtheftcondom didn't ask.
The insomnia passes, as all intense bouts of anything eventually will, and grandtheftcondom didn't really message, text, email, or use any other form of contact with Mister Monday for a while. Except the unavoidable responses to posts on a social networking site both of them frequent. Nothing seemed wrong. Maybe they talked less, but so what? No heart given, no heart broken.
Many weeks passed, and a number shows up on her phone. A number she has never seen before. Ignoring it, like anyone with a level head would do, she continued stressing out about more important things. Like where the fuck her lighter went to. The phone rings a second time. Grandtheftcondom answers it, realizes she DEFINITELY doesn't recognize the person on the other end and hangs up. A third call goes ignored. The fourth one is ignored. And so the process repeats itself until grandtheftcondom can take no more of this madness.
Filled with a righteous anger, she furiously dials the number and calls back.
GTC- "Hello? Someone's been calling my number?"
???- "Umm yeah. Your number's on my phone."
GTC (thinking, what the fuck?)- "Well, I most certainly haven't called your number."
???- "So... where are you from?"
GTC (officially wigged out by weird stalker woman asking where she lived and thinking, this isn't adultfriendfinder.com)- "I'm hanging up now."
Hours pass before the connection is made. Oh shit, she thinks to herself. I bet that area code is going to look just like Mister Monday's. Sure enough, after looking through the contacts, it is the same damn area code. She wrote Mister Monday an email, telling him that she didn't appreciate his girlfriend calling her phone. Of course she didn't. First of all, she only has a little phone where the minutes actually count. Second of all, calling so many times in a day is kind of stalker-ish. No reply from Mister Monday.
She shrugged it off. She didn't give a fuck. A few more weeks pass and she finds out Mister Monday sent her an email months ago on a social networking site that they don't interact on very often. She replied to it, keeping her tone light and friendly. She had no problems with Mister Monday, and the girlfriend incident was long forgotten. After all, we're all adults here, aren't we?
Then something happened. Something so terrible, so uncalled for, that even rewriting it makes the computer screen burn brighter with hate.
SOME BITCH POSTED GRANDTHEFTCONDOM'S PERSONAL CELL NUMBER ON THE FUCKING INTERNET.
This comment seemed to encourage other users to harass grandtheftcondom at this particular number. There was no provocation, there was no warning, there was nothing. It. Just. Fucking. Happened.
Getting in touch with Mister Monday is now an impossibility. Apparently, about the time his girlfriend found out about his little text messages with grandtheftcondom, he willing handed over his balls, his spine, and his fucking man card. He cannot be reached by any social networking site grandtheftcondom knows him on. He no longer accepts messages anywhere. His number has been changed. He refuses to respond to emails.
Bear in mind, grandtheftcondom has done nothing wrong. She was not aware that Mister Monday was even in a relationship. He certainly never made any references to any female partner. And now grandtheftcondom is being treated like a stalker. FORGIVE ME FOR LIKING YOUR FUCKING MUSIC AND THINKING YOU WERE INTERESTING. I'LL NEVER FUCKING DO IT AGAIN. ASSHOLE.
Let this be a lesson, gentlemen. While I applaud being faithful and good and open with your spouses/wives/partners/whores/psychos/or-whatever-fucking-flavour-you-like, please don't allow your fucking female to control every aspect of your life to such an extent. Because then she stops being your girlfriend or whatever. Now she's just your fucking mother.