I try, Reader. I really, truly TRY to not let unimportant things get stuck in my craw, but sometimes things climb right on up in there and the next thing ya know, they are stuck. I must have a very snug craw.
So this one is about something that's currently stuck in my craw, and it's for you, My Dear Ex-Husband.
I guess after all those years married, he knows right how to stick in my craw. I haven't let him up there in a long, long time - many-a-year, in fact. But today? He got shoved right back up in my craw space.
My sister-in-law and nephew ran into him a few days ago, or maybe it was yesterday - I was really only half paying attention when she was telling me she ran into him. I just went on auto-tune-out when she mentioned his name, because I frankly couldn't give a flying fuck what he's doing. As Gotye sings, "Now you're just somebody that I used to know."
But the part of the story that got my attention? As she went on to tell me that he told her he's remarried, and what all his kids are up to - the daughter joined the Army, a son in the Marines, and maybe the other two are doing something, I'm not really sure (I knew these kids for a long time, Reader - year after formative year, and I was very good to them, and then we didn't stay in touch because sometimes no good will come of things and that was one of those things), but the part where my ears pricked up? When she relayed the part of the conversation where he said, "Well, ya know, as far as the divorce, there's always two sides to every story."
Two. Sides. To. Every. Story.
Crawled up inside my craw and has lodged there. So now I shall attempt to dislodge you, Random and Careless Comment. And set the record straight, for all the Interwebs to read, and I hope your new wife would somehow stumble upon this - or perhaps your kids - and read with their own eyes the 2 sides of the story.
Fucksteve fucked Nancy. A married woman 20 years older, well ensconced in her 50's, married for 30+ years with kids almost my age. Because she was infatuated with him for being a policeman, and lauded praise on his gigantic ego, and it swelled to a size that no wife could contain. And he fucked her in my bed, bringing his trash and guilt and bad behavior into my world.
I divorced Fucksteve.
So I guess you're right. Every story has two sides.
I guess I had imagined that with the passage of time - I counted, and it's been 8 years now, since that fateful night when I overheard him on the phone trash talking me and I called the police - his very own brotherhood - and threw his ass out of my house and into the street, to sleep in the gutter where he belonged - I had hoped that he had matured and had taken accountability for his behavior.
Apparently? He has not, if he's trying to tarnish my reputation and integrity by implying, with his comment, that there is some seedy "other" side to the story that involves me.
To my own family member.
Who knows all about him fucking Nancy, in my own house, in my very own bed. With candles and shit set up on the nightstand, that he forgot to put away when I got home from a trip. My own fucking candles.
So. If somehow New Mrs. Fucksteve - or The Children of Fucksteve - or The Friends of Fucksteve - should happen to ever stumble up on a lil' ol' blog by Trixie Bang Bang, here I present you with both sides of the story.