The last time I had a good break-up, I gathered up all of the stuff my cheating ex-boyfriend had ever given me, threw it into a garbage bag and donated it to charity. It’s not maybe as shocking as spewing it across his lawn while screaming obscenities at his closed windows, but he lived with his parents and I’m not really the sort of person to fill a person’s car up with mud or anything. That’s a level of magnitude way beyond anything I could ever dream of doing. Besides, that sort of shit makes you look bonkers, and if I’ve learned anything in my 29 years on this planet, it’s this: always tip your waxer properly. Okay, always tip your waxer properly AND avoid doing anything that makes you look like a complete psychopath especially in the eyes of an ex. Because that is the stuff that legends are made of.
Legends like Amy.
I worked as a server with Amy at an outdoor bar and grill and when I first met her, I’ll admit, I thought she was a total bitch. Her face was stuck in a perpetual sneer and while the rest of the staff had banded together in an us-versus-them sort of mentality that you sort of have to get if you want to survive the brutal Saturday night crowd, Amy looked like she’d probably shove you UNDER the grill. And like it. She rubbed all of us the wrong way instantly.
Throwing Poo At Me Is Not OK
I happened to be having a party that night at my house after work and while it was an open door policy, I feverishly hoped that no one mentioned it to Amy. She might show up and cut me or throw poo at me or something. But she showed up, predictably, because one of the guys thought she was hot and dragged her along and I made every effort to be nice to her. Why not? I reasoned. Well, Amy must have somehow sensed that I was a person to be nice to, because the next thing you knew, she wanted to be my best friend. Every joke I told was HILARIOUS and everything I said was worth of a repeat and suddenly it was like I was Queen Shit of Shit Mountain in her eyes. Whatever, I reasoned, not thinking too much of it, and we all got along pretty well for quite awhile. Amy and I became tentative friends, although I admit that I never trusted her.
Amy, following in the footsteps of so many young waitresses before her, began to date one of our managers, whom I had liked very much (although not that way) because we were both single parents but their relationship seemed, well, odd. She wasn’t entirely enthused by his children and was very unhappy by his relationships with their mothers. She and I began to hang out more outside of work, forming study groups as we were both in line to finish our bachelor’s degrees. We’d chat about work and life and all sorts of things, and while she’d occasionally drop bombs about what her boyfriend thought of me, I grew to think of her as sort of a friend. Until she took her neediness to the next level.
And, Queue The Drama
Amy and our boss tearfully broke up one Friday night and she showed up at the grill, openly weeping and screaming about miscarriages and how he wouldn’t speak to her now. As the grill began to get busy she moved from the back of the grill to the manager’s office and back again like a pissed-off ghoul until finally she disappeared. Hoping that she’d gone home to get some rest, I tended to my tables, and her boyfriend (my boss) and I were barely on speaking terms any more, and I wanted no more Amy Drama.
Closing time rolled around and I was counting out my bank with my boss when I saw her car pull into the parking lot. My heart sank as he asked me to stay. I couldn’t imagine why someone who clearly outweighed me by 50 pounds needed my protection, but I agreed. Suddenly she jumped out of her car and onto his where she began jumping up and down on the hood and the roof of the car, screaming his name. Apparently, he’d been ignoring her calls. Bad move, dude.
He called the police.
When she was informed of this, she ran into the grill, where she began physically beating on him, all 95 pounds of her, managing to break the pizza cook’s glasses and punch me in the face at the same time. Unsatisfied by his reaction now, she then went into the back and began smashing plates. While I was slightly annoyed because it meant that I would have to stay back and clean up, I admired the hell out of her display of anger. That took BALLS. Clearly, he was going to get the message now.
Howling Banshee Of A Woman Scorned
In her victory lap, she grabbed some more plates to lob at his head and then back outside to jump on top of his car once more, denting the shit out of the hood. By this time, the police were there and even they looked mystified as to what to do with the howling banshee of a woman scorned. We all just stood around her as she then got onto the ground and punched that for awhile. Girlfriend was pissed the fuck off. And I was glad that I’d never dated her.
I don’t actually know what happened between the two of them because I didn’t stick around long enough to find out. I’d already gotten punched in the jaw and I really didn’t need any spare plates thrown at my head. And truthfully, I didn’t care. The show was pretty intense and kind of awe-inspiring. That was a hell of a break-up, man. I never had anything that compared to it, which, in hindsight, I’m pretty happy about.
What’s the worst break-up you’ve experienced?