Let me tell you the story of my no-good, leech of a soon to be ex-husband. That son of a bitch has been holding court with some flies at the Satellite Cafe, pretending to be a writer - and his nights at local nightclubs, pretending to be a 19-year-old on spring break. Can you believe the nerve of that bastard? Cruising around in my Lexus, wearing the expensive sunglasses he bought with my money, in the cool Urban Outfitters clothes he got with the money he secretly siphoned out of my account, spending my money on other women.
Memo to the cunt that sonofabitch took to McGrath's and that he stayed the night with at the Hyatt: it wasn't his money he used; it was mine. And I want it back. I didn't spend my entire summer whoring my book to have that snake gallivanting all over town making me look ridiculous. And a woman in my position can't afford to be made to look ridiculous!We'll see how cool you think he is when he's sweating like a jackass on the city bus with all those Guadalupe-worshipping Mexican maids, with nowhere to take you but the guest room at his parents' house. Maybe he'll even pop the aerobed for you.
I'm not jealous at all, you see. I could care less about him. I got what I wanted from him, which was his sperm, so I could have a kid before father time made me barren. But if there's one thing I love as much as my kid, it's my money. Luckily I put the house and the cars in my name. I knew this relationship was going to be a failure. If there's one thing I've learned it's to expect my relationships to end in the worst possible way (That's why we take precautions Chicas). Community property, my ass! I'm gonna hire me the best Jew divorce lawyer in all of Elephant Butte and that two-timing sponge will rue the day he was born.
I probably shouldn't air my personal problems out in public like this, those Nazi Cubans down in Miami will probably be spoofing me on that atrocious parody blog, but I can't help it. When I need to act crazy, I need to act crazy. Consequences be damned.
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