I Hate Everyone: The Return of Man Boobs

There are ex-boyfriends, and there are ex-boyfriends.

There are those relationships that, for whatever reason, just didn't work out, but all those involved were wearing their I'm An Adult hats and the break-up held a minimum amount of tears and gnashing of teeth. Sure, it robbed you of a good, gory story to tell your friends over some microbrew in Decatur, but it saved you hundreds of dollars in therapy bills and the hassle of having to change all the locks at your house. So because of this, you can still have an occasional non-awkward phone conversation with this ex-boyfriend, hang out sometimes or booty-call him and it's all good. Hell, there's some guys I've dated who I've wound up have a better relationship with after we'd broken up.

And then, there are those relationships that, when they ended, the resulting break-up caused a huge, terrible fireball that demolished everyone and everything in a three-mile radius. These are the ex-boyfriends of such epic douchebag proportions that they become legendary and your friends tell you that should go on Jerry Springer with your tale of woe.

So when you unexpectedly get a phone call from one of your exes who falls in the latter category, you know that nothing good can come from it.

A few days ago my ex, who is commonly referred to as 'Man Boobs' (seriously, he had some great big titties), called me up, and when his name appeared on my caller ID I think it scared about four years off my life. See, we didn't have any children, friends, pets, property, anything in common together anymore, and also the last time I spoke to him I told him what an oxygen thief and general waste of skin he was, so I was totally expecting something along the lines of either I tested positive for TB so you might want to go to the doctor or I am still in love with you and I made a terrible mistake.

Like I said, nothing good could come of this, but I didn't want to be a pussy so I answered the call, and he asked if I had any of his tax stuff from last year because he was working on his financial aid paperwork for school.

"I'll look for it when I get home," I told him, and we hung up.

It took me a good 20 minutes for my pulse to come back down from the triple digits, but when it did I realized what had just happened: He'd asked me for a favor.

After being broken up for almost a year and not even speaking for five months, he wanted a favor. After mooching off of me for months after he got fired from his job a week after my stepmother died he wanted a favor. After moving out of our apartment his family came over and helped him trash the place, destroy my family pictures and stole lightbulbs he wanted a favor. After calling me up a day before my birthday when he knew I was having emotional problems to brag about banging his new girlfriend he wanted a favor.

Now, I admit I wasn't a perfect girlfriend or anything but... he stole lightbulbs!!! Lightbulbs I bought! And not even the nice ones, just the cheap-o 60-watt ones!

Anyway, I thought I was going to give myself a stroke after realizing what had just occurred, but then it came to me: by asking for a favor, he's put me in a position of power.

Dumbass.

So, Man Boobs, I cordially invite you to go fuck yourself. Or your skag of a girlfriend, unless you accidentally smothered her to death in your cleveage. I am pretty sure I don't have your tax stuff anyway, but if I do come across it rest assured that it will be meeting with an industrial paper shredder soon. I don't recall there being a section of law stating that I have to give a damn about douchebag ex-boyfriends or their financial aid for school. To be honest, I wish all of my exes well on their future endeavors and harbor no ill will, but if I found out you were living in a gutter eating peanut shells and wet cigarette butts I'd be pretty damn delighted.