It all began last week, when I was sitting at a table with my girlfriends for our weekly “spaghetti and wine” night. That’s what the Italians eat, right? Much to every man on Earth’s dismay, slumber parties and girls nights almost never end in pillow fights, and almost always end in some girl complaining about her period…and people subsequently getting a creepy level of excited about having “synched up.” Side bar: why does that even happen? My best guess is that in the tribal days, the girls wanted to go to the period tent at the same time so they could hang out with all their friends. I digress. We got to talking about crazy period stories. Not in a gross way. Just crazy things we’ve done thanks to an increase in hormones.
Everyone thought they were really cute with their thrilling tales: “I was SO mean to my mom one time because she made chicken but I’d had chicken for lunch!” Please. Amateur hour. Very recently, during a visit from Aunt Flo, I entered true pscyho mode.
I was sitting in the sorority house’s study, when I had an intense craving Cheetos craving. It was 1am on a Tuesday night and I had two exams the following day, so I didn’t really have anything better to do then go out and satisfy my over-the-top, overly specific craving, so I hopped in my car to take a quick trip to the nearest grocery store. On my way there, a motorcycle pulled up next to me at a red light. On it was a guy who looked strikingly similar to my boyfriend whom I’d been dating for a little over a year, and behind him, there was a girl. I say he looked “strikingly similar,” but of course by that I mean he was wearing a helmet so I couldn’t see his face, and clothes I didn’t recognize. But he was heading in the same direction as Chad’s apartment, wearing the same watch Chad wears. And the same socks. And I mean the same EXACT socks.
Naturally, I freaked the fuck out. Chad told me he was at work, but he’s really driving around the town with a blonde babe on the back of a motorcycle (Chad doesn’t even own a motorcycle)? Kill me. No, don’t fucking kill me. Kill him. I immediately texted him to let him know he’d been caught.
Me: Where r u?
Me: Oh really?
Me: So you’re cool if i come visit you?
Chad: Sure babe! It’s pretty slow tonight and I could use some company 😉
Me: Cool cause I really need a drink
Chad: Don’t you have two exams tomorrow tho?
At this point, any normal girl would trust her boyfriend, drop the convo, and get back to studying. But I’m no normal girl — or at least I’m in no normal state of mind. “Don’t I have two exams tomorrow?” Obviously a ploy to get me not to come to work. So I drove to the bar he works at on the opposite side of town and go on a search. I took a quick lap around the bar and didn’t see his white Toyota anywhere. That asshole. Chad is a lying cheating bastard. A lying cheating bastard who recently acquired a motorcycle and learned how to operate it without me knowing so he could live a secret life with his other girlfriend. And now, I’m going to have to live with that.
The next day I took my exams, and obviously bombed them because who can study knowing their boyfriend is a lying cheating dirtbag?! As I was walking to the bus stop on campus to ride home, I saw him. “My boyfriend.” Same build, hair color, shorts, shoes, AND watch as the motorcyclist from last night walking towards the bus stop. “Chad!” I called out. He didn’t turn.
So I start running after him. If you’re not that familiar with my workout habits, I haven’t stepped foot on a treadmill or a track for 6 months. But I RAN toward my boyfriend backpack and all. I grabbed him and started screaming, until I promptly realized this was a stranger who is now considering a restraining order. It was a lovely bus ride the two of us took together, and I hung my head in shame as he got off the bus at Chad’s apartment complex and walked up to a black motorcycle.
Moral of the story? That I’m a psycho overreacting bitch while on my period? Nah. The moral of the story is that my boyfriend has a doppelgänger. That is all..
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