So there's this bullshit that goes around saying you'll meet the perfect guy and everything will be great. The Heavens will literally shit magic on your life and you and your perfect man will have a beautiful little girl and this macho little shit of a son who lives up to everything you expect. You're handfed images of mothers and fathers in black L.L. Bean polyester zip-ups and jeans holdings hands in a park that is draped in mid-autumn scenery while two little bastards and a dog (either a Beagle or a Golden Retriever) chases after them.

At some point I meandered off this path because, as of right now, I am standing in the unfinished basement of my parent's house with the Virginia Society of Tentacle Lovers (of which, I now am president), my beaver-hound WoW addicted brother, my best friend Yvonne, and a table full of guns. I am two days un-bathed, sweaty, and fucking angry. And I am going to murder my ex-boyfriend and his friends.

My black L.L. Bean polyester zip-up was torn up and I own a Newfoundland, if you were wondering.