Soundtrack: Sugar, We’re Going Down Swinging by Fall Out Boy.
I’ve only really had one ‘bunny boiler’ moment in my life. I’m both ashamed and proud of that, in all fairness; I don’t want to be that mad ex-girlfriend that everyone jokes about with their mates in the pub. I’ve never wanted to be that girl. There have been times that I have accidentally become that girl… like right after The Text, when I learned that The Postman was a lying, cheating sack of shit.
In fact, why don’t we talk about that for a little bit today?
The Morning After
I woke up hungover as shit, the angriest I’d ever been up until that point, and in the mood to exact revenge in the meanest, coldest, cuntiest way possible. We had been together for ten months, and he’d been engaged to another woman for the entire time. My heart was broken. The Postman had broken my heart. I had to exact the same on him; I was sure that it was the only thing that would make me feel better.
So, I called upon my trusted Bestie to help.
“How much pain do you want him to feel?” he asked. “I can break his legs? We can just fuck his life up a bit? On a scale of one to ten, where are you?”
I thought about it for a few minutes, making coffee to avoid an awkward silence. “I’m not sure, you know,” I eventually admitted. “Maybe eight. But also, maybe ten. And sometimes, it’s only a three. So, yeah, I don’t know.”
“We could start by emptying the toiletries he left in the bathroom?” Bestie helpfully offered.
It was perfect. The toiletries in question were Clarins, AKA quite costly. What better way to seek revenge on my cheating bastard of an ex-boyfriend than by emptying out every single bottle or tube that he’d left there, totalling approximately £115, according to our research? We squeezed. I squealed, then cried a little bit, then squealed some more, all the while ranting about how much of a piece of shit, The Postman was.
It was good, but it wasn’t good enough yet.
Moving On…
Bestie and I went through my bedroom next, collecting everything and anything that had been left behind by The Postman, throwing it into a pile in the middle of the living room floor. There was a phone charger that didn’t fit with either of our phones, so we cut it in half, then put it into a plastic bag to give back to him. A belt snipped in half, came next, then two work shirts, covered in the ketchup that was out of date in our fridge.
There were a few other clothing items, so I cut those into tiny pieces, then sprinkled them into the bag. And then… I found The Postman’s passport.
“Isn’t he going on that stag do in Prague soon?” Bestie said.
“In like, six days,” I replied, giggling.
Bestie didn’t even need to ask me; we were fucking the passport up and preventing that cheating bastard from being able to go to Prague. No cutting this time, though; instead, I covered the thing in makeup. Cheater in black pencil eyeliner. Cunt in long-lasting lipstick. Lots of nonsensical scribbles with whatever else we could find in my makeup bag. The cost of replacing the items was well worth my relatively short-lived revenge giddiness.
Bunny Boiler
Within an hour of us destroying every last item that he’d left in The Flat, The Postman text me.
“Hey, I’m sorry to bother you, I’m just wondering if I could pick my things up from your place soon? Please and thanks!”
Very polite. Prick. The message just irritated me further. So, I called him. The Postman didn’t answer, of course, but I left a snarling message on his voicemail:
“Hey, cheater. I’ll be at Thorpe Park tomorrow, but I’ll throw your shit in a bag, out the front, before we go. Pick it up, or don’t. I couldn’t give a shit. I hope your life sucks. Bye!”
It felt good, but that didn’t stop the tears flowing. Of course it wouldn’t; I was hurt. I would never admit that to anyone other than Bestie, but I still felt all the things that come with being cheated on: hurt, angry, betrayed, lied to, crushed…
Still, I did as I said: I put his stuff in a bag, then threw it out the front of my house as I left early to travel to Thorpe Park.
It wasn’t my fault that it was garbage day, and the garbage truck got there before he did, is it?
Revenge is best served in the trash, where that man belongs.
The next blog post in the dating timeline is this one: Number 21: The OMG Guy.
Thank you so much for reading my blog today! 🖤
Would you like to read all about The Postman’s story, right from the very beginning? You’ll find that right here.
You can also read all about my disastrous dating history, right from the beginning, right here: Table of Dating Contents.
Alternatively, why not have a little peek around here: