Not throwing stones at you, anymore...

This isnt a character defamation, the accused actions and lies have all been admitted to, and the parts that are opinion are completely obvious. This is only a character defamation if her actions made it so, Im simply the required messenger.

On the other hand- her words are complete character defamation. Claims of being 'beaten' and 'hit in the face'- utterly untrue and ridiculous. One of us was punched, kicked, and attacked- it wasn't her. Ms. Anti-Violence struck me many times that week, and topped it all off with her flailing screams on the final morning.

We talked about the 'lost wedding ring' (it wasn't), the 'paycheck that wasn't picked up' (it was), the 'miscarriage'(it was an abortion), the many times you physically attacked me, and

Yet I'm the bad guy.

What did I lie about? When did I ever strike you? Was it between waking up at 6am to drive you to your hero of a grandmother's storage room to save your belongings from her drunkardness and blowing over 1500$ on your thrift store habits/pregnancy cravings? Where's my restitution?

And now you say that I attempted to meet you for sex recently? How fucking insane are you? If I ever use the phrase "Get through to our cars"- then please, throw me to the ground twice and strike me upon the head and body and break my goddamn collarbone.

Keep painting the pictures on your public journal- of happy marriages and surviving abuse, they're about as believable as the awful sketches I found on my top shelf, and in turn disposed of. I am every villain from any Samuel L Jackson film- whether it be the oddly-shaped head of S.L.J from Unbreakable, or the afore-mentioned Black Snake Moan abuser (we all know what happened in that theatre). I know the 'truth' behind your happy marriage is written on scattered private journals, and proof of them remains here.

You wanted Angelo to marry you.
You wanted Daniel to marry you. ("He said 'I Love You,' This man is a God.")
You wanted me to marry you.

You told Angelo -

"I'm impatient and will end up marrying a psycho."

Well, somebody married a psycho, that's for sure.

The only explanation I can fathom for you continuing to believe the claim that I struck you on that morning- is that you truly do not remember, just as you told me you didn't. This wasn't a game, it wasn't about winning and losing- it's about what happened, and the difference between reality and your molded mythical boxing story.

"Get your things, dont come back."
"I'll be back after the orientation to get my stuff."
"If you come here I'll call the cops."
"Good, maybe they will take Anchor out of this mess."

That's when you sprung from the couch and attacked me. And yes, you did strike my mother as she held your screaming, frightened child- who was experiencing yet another spastic-freak-out from his mother. You did throw a black shoe that barely missed all three of us and bounced off the door. You were screaming in a rage, and you did kick and punch me.

I did not kick, punch, or throw anything at you. I didn't even raise my voice.

There's a reason why I was greeted by "Come in, I know my sister is a psycho." And there's a reason our OB-GYN recommended you to a psychiatrist, and there's a reason behind the scars on your legs and your unbelievably fake-sounding cry.

I'm sick of pretending that the aborted fetus was mine, when it was weeks older than the night we met. I'm sick of pretending that you weren't talking to Michael on the porch when you thought I was asleep, the night before you fucked up again.I'm sick of pretending you didn't cheat on that weekend we broke up, when your vag' had dilated at least 3 inches by the time we got back together. And I'm sick of you pretending you are a victim.

Perhaps, most of all, I'm sick of you pretending you're a writer. You didn't even know what a sonnet was before I met you. Your journals and poems are cliche jargon, wordy for the sake of being wordy, pure nonsense. Your writing would be better suited under the pen of your gothic sister.

Here's an example of a Storm-written sentence, completed off the top of my head:

"The rain drops contained no emotion,
and plunged into the dirt without a care for the night's eyes."

I gave you too much credit with that line break. Pre-teenage, black eye-liner poetry.

There was a time during the first month of the relationship, right after I heard about the 'knocked up' situation, where I replayed a quote from Scrubs over and over in my head in order to respond to the baffled world's question:

"She's pregnant? She wants to marry you? What're you going to do?"
"I guess I just have to spend the rest of my life with her."

When I made that answer, I was a defeated man.
When I plead guilty yesterday morning, I was given a second chance.
You're finally out of my life.

There are two statements I live by,

1. I would rather be found guilty knowing I didn't do it, than get off having done it.
2. A year and a half of probation is well worth not marrying you.
   

As far as an unhappy relationship, only one of us had to ask this question:

"Why doesn't my vagina make you cum anymore?"

My answer to that question was a lie, by the way.

I'm glad you're happy with how you look, and convinced yourself you're the 'skinniest you've ever been'. My father honestly asked the question, "Is that your's?"

Your marriage is a result of you two having a conversation about me, because you were on my side of town. And now, you're married to some 30 year old attempting to raise an overweight, neglected kid (the kid and the 30 year old appear to be the same age). Nice life.

Stay out of mine, you're the biggest three mistakes I ever made.



I'll be burning my Sylvia Plath books on the next We Hit & Run.

You're a woman, not a winner. That's important in the courtroom, ms 'women dont have rights'.

If you got something to say, say it here. Your journal is nonexistent.

Oh yeah, I got a promotion today.