Congratulations on Making Crack Cookies!

As she’s packing her bags, you’ll be finishing up the last batch of cookies.  She’ll be screaming at you as she moves between rooms, collecting garments, knick knacks, what have yous.  Every scrap of her life she might even moderately care about will be inventoried and selected as she screams things like “enabler” and “fucking chode” at you at the top of her lungs.

You’ll do your best not to hear her.  This is the woman you love, and anything that conflicts with that isn’t something you want influencing the narrative of your romance, so you’ll have long ago conditioned your brain to omit “spurious” details, like the fact that she’s an addict, or the fact that she cries before, during, and after each sexual encounter with you.  Those details will be replaced by furtive evenings spent, in your mind, wandering the city, meeting new people and having adventures.  The reality is that these were evenings where she was trying to score that you spent trying to keep her from blowing anyone for drugs.

After packing has run its course, when she tries to leave, you’ll step in front of her with a plate of your freshly prepared cookies.  You’ll extend them out to her and say “Please, just have one of these before you go.  Something to remember me by.”

She’ll look at you cannily – her trust will have been burned off in previous relationships, and your inability to say no to her has convinced her that you aren’t the person who can protect her from herself.  But what’s the harm in a cookie? the small, stupid part of her brain will say, the most powerful part in every human’s brain.  So she’ll take the cookie, take a bite and announce:

“These taste funny.”

Then she’ll calm down.  Twenty minutes later, she’ll perk up when the crack in the cookies kicks in.  She’ll know exactly what’s going on, but she’ll want more cookies.  So many more cookies.  Cookies you’ll refuse to give her if she leaves.  So she’ll do what she knows.  She’ll rip off your pants and begin blowing you with a fervor and passion that she’s never blown you before.  Then, performing oral sex on you to completion and swallowing what remains, she’ll lean back and pass out.

You’ll carry her to the bed the two of you share and deposit her there, sprawled on her back, staring up at the ceiling.  You’ll give her a kiss on the forehead and set the plate of cookies on the bedstand beside her, just in case she wants some more crack in the night.

Congratulations on Making Crack Cookies!

Congratulations on Riding the Mouse to Freedom!

In the days after your escape from the giant’s butthole, the world will begin to come into focus.  Slowly, surely, you’ll begin to recognize your surroundings not as a strange fantasy world beyond your understanding but as an area of Texas known to be populated with existentialist giants and incredibly large rodents.  With that in mind you’ll have your faithful giant-mouse steed Crispin turned around and pointed towards Baton Rouge in a matter of hours.

The journey that comes will take days. Over these days you’ll have learned a lot.  About yourself, about the lay of the land, about the way that mice eat, defecate and urinate when they’re increased to a tremendous, even terrible scale.  It will be a truly amazing journey, one that will leave you absolutely desperate to get back to your apartment and your cats and to never see another giant mouse penis again.

But alas, as you ride up to Baton Rouge, mouse steed a galoomphing, waving at your methhead neighbors as they briefly emerge from their mid-day hazes, pausing occasionally to convince the police not to shoot you and your mouse-friend out of hand, explaining that while his mousepenis is quite terrifying he is a gentle soul, possessed of a truly generous heart.

After your long journey the familiar streets will seem so foreign, so strange, that you won’t realize until you’re nearly home that you’re riding through the ruins of a freak flood until you’re nearly at your apartment.  That will make your discovery an ever greater surprise.

When you rear Crispin by your home you’ll notice that your apartment will be by and large missing.  Elements of the building in which it rested will be there, but for the most part the structure itself will be long gone.  A wooden sign, hammered into the ground, will read “Management Not Responsible for Loss of Property.”  You’ll rouse a nearby methhead and, after explaining to him that you aren’t interested in getting your dick sucked for meth, discover that the building exploded when the storm got to the fuse box and “blew ‘er all to hell.”

There were no survivors.

You’ll pause for a moment, thinking of your cats.  Then you’ll laugh, remembering how much you hated them and imagining how wonderful life will be without them.  You’ll place your hand near Crispin’s mouth, prompting him to lick your palm affectionately, before thanking the homeless man and riding off to your ex-girlfriend’s house to tell her that your cats are dead, you have a giant mouse and you want her back.

All things considered, this will be the best considered attempt to get back together with her that you’ll ever have enacted.  It will be successful for a period of two weeks, just long enough for her to begin sleeping with Crispin and for you to find a new apartment.

Congratulations on Riding the Mouse to Freedom!

Congratulations on Getting Rid of Your Poster!

“FUCK YOU!”

She’ll storm out of your dorm room still wearing your shirt and underwear, walking barefoot through the snow to her dorm. You’ll want to scream at her that she’s overreacting, that she should at least put her shoes on. That she has warm winter clothing and that she’ll likely catch cold the way she’s strutting about. But you won’t be able to find the courage to utter a word.

Instead you’ll watch her as she goes, watch the motion of her ass in your underwear. You’ll both be too young to think that this will last, too foolish to realize that sometimes never means forever. You’ll be particularly unconcerned with the thought that she’ll never be back. Women frequently leave your bed in rage and come back several days later, since you have a thing for emotionally damaged angry women who flip out at you.

What will be wearing on you will be the fact that, as she walks across the quad she’ll be clutching the lion’s share of your poster of two girls kissing. You know the one, the one that every single douchebag in college has posted above their bed. She’ll be ripping it up as she goes, knowing that this is going to hurt you, knowing it’ll make you angry the next time you’re together even if you’re inside her.

She won’t turn back to see you looking out after her through your rapidly fogging window. She won’t have to turn to know you’re there, seething, pressing your tongue against your teeth, wishing you could open your window, shout the price of the poster (fourteen dollars and seventy five cents American) and then slam it shut. But you know if you do that then she’ll really be gone. This is her way of winning, her way of taking away your control. You won’t even know she’s doing it.

But she will. And you won’t see it, but she’ll have a tiny smile on her face as she rips the two kissing women in twain, letting the scraps fall to the ground, stumbling a little as her feet go numb.

Congratulations on Getting Rid of Your Poster!

Congratulations, You Fucking Twat!

Well, everyone here in the office hopes you’re really fucking happy. On Monday of this week you’ll leave your boyfriend of six years, Jack, so that you can fuck some douchebag you used to know in high school.

Then you’ll go on a two day tear of unsatisfying sex with people you’d considered fucking when you were still with Jack. This way it totally isn’t cheating.

On the third day you’ll just be bushed, so you’ll veg out and smoke an eighth with your roomie while you watch Gilmore Girls. Then you’ll giggle and talk about what the penises of the seven dues you fucked over the last two days were like, because that’s totally what girls talk about.

Then on the fourth day you’ll start to feel a little bit sad. This is only natural; a nice person loved you and you’ve done everything humanly possible to make it clear that you not only care nothing for him, but that your entire relationship might as well not have happened.

On the fifth day you’ll start of feeling bad again, then drink heavily and sleep with several other men until those bad feelings go away. You’ll also contract gonorrhea.

On the sixth day you’re going to get really sad, feeling an emptiness inside you (which is actually early stage gonorrhea) and call Jack, asking him to meet you at a bar.

There you’ll apologize to him, telling him nothing of the last five days and the things you’ve done. You’ll tell him that in that short time away from one another you realized he truly was the one for you. Then you’ll cry a little, just to sweeten it. Think of when you had that tiny dog that had a cast for a while to help with this. Whatever you do, don’t think about what you’ve actually done or you’ll run from the bar weeping and, if we’re lucky, swallow all the uppers and downers you have in your cupboard.

Jack will calmly and quietly consider both his feelings for you and all that you’ve said. He guessed about you fucking the high school kid, but the rest is all unknown to him. After a good long thought he’ll ask you to come over and spend the night in his bed.

On the morning of the seventh day you’ll give him gonorrhea. Have fun explaining that in two weeks, just before you break up.

Or, alternatively, accuse him of cheating on you. You’re crazy enough to pull it off.

Either way congratulations, you fucking twat. You deserve to have a safe fall on you from the sky.