You didn’t make him feel like a man. I did. You didn’t offer him all of your body. I did. You weren’t the good girl he wanted. I was. It was your fault he cheated.

I saw him at a party. He was drinking a Bud Light. He was examining his shoes like they were swirling oceans of loneliness—loneliness that isn’t lonely. You weren’t there. You were somewhere else. Maybe at home. Maybe at a bar. Maybe at a Belarusian Water Park. You had been fighting all day. The movie-style kind of fighting. The slow-motion. The pointing at each other like you’re auctioning each other off to the highest fiddler. The saying everything twice for emphasis once the fight has reached its climax so as to signify that it’s coming to an emotionally charged ending. The blurting of “ain’t nobody,” even though you’re white.

He fled from you. He was upset. He just wanted some time with his buddies. He thought the party would take his mind off of you. But not even the broskis and beer could cheer him up. He wandered. Longing for a woman’s embrace. He started thinking about retirement, oil spills, and people not dying in NASCAR accidents, along with other depressing things. But that’s when he saw me. I was (am) pretty, and my eyes were willing. I knew he was together with you, but his sorry eyes implored me to go fuck him.

I told myself an old, very deep and empowering quote by a certain someone who has the same last name as Kanye:

You can only be as strong as a person’s past if it doesn’t allow you to be weaker than that—and that’s OK—there’s strength in breaking down four times—trust yourself to be better than that third person’s weakness in the event that being strong won’t gain your own happiness but someone else’s—that’s not accepting other people’s approval—because you don’t have to be perfect to not be hurt.

And then it was a green light for me.

I walked up to him and looked at him for who he was—and he saw that. We humans are the only species who have a self—we were truly selfless—and he reflected his self in my self. He knew I could heal his wounds—that I could suck his dick like I was drowning and his balls were oxygen tanks—and that was okay—but his conscience told him no—so I had to lead him—take his hand up the stairs—press my ass against his bulging crotch on the way up.

In the bedroom he ravaged me. I gave myself to him in ways that you couldn’t imagine (and if you could imagine them you’re probably a fucking pervert). He cleaned my chimney good—better than he ever cleaned yours. He forgot your name as he thrust his big dumpling into my gripping culo and screamed my name. My fleshy hips became his throne of seed-spraying bliss.

Your boyfriend cheated on you, and it’s your fault. You weren’t good enough for him. You didn’t fulfill his needs. You were too fat. Too clingy. Too unattractive. The other woman—me in this case—was simply better, more attractive, and knew how to treat him like a man. You couldn’t even keep a man. You pushed him away. You were a bitch.

Your boyfriend cheated on you, and it’s your fault. It’s always your fault.

(Yeah, I know, that was totally deep, Dakota helped me edit, cuz she said I sometimes write like I speak!???. Whatevs. Share it with every girl who’s been cheated on. Kbye.)