I’ve told many people this story, and while I tend to find it rather funny, not a single person I’ve told can come up with a more ridiculous and awful experience.
We were each around 18-19 years old. A friend of mine worked at a local arcade, and that’s where I met Dillon.
She lived about a half hour away and was in Los Angeles with a friend to do some shopping. We started to hang out and, of course, fell madly in love with each other. A few months later, I was still living at my apartment but I kept a lot of my stuff at Dillon’s Mom’s house. I’m surprised Dillon didn’t get pregnant. Seriously. You’re going to let an 19-year-old boy hang at your house while he’s dating your daughter and you work all day? I must be sterile. Needless to say, things were going fine until…
One afternoon, we were having sex, and I smelled something foul. Not quite sure what it was, I asked her if she could smell it, too.
Back to the pogo stick. After finishing, she rolled off, and I began to get up. Until I saw it. A mess of brown funk on my apple bag.
“What. The. Fuck. You fucking shit on me?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, what the fuck is that?”
“Maybe you shit on yourself.”
(Anger rising, nausea increasing.)
“My asshole is on the other side of my body.”
(Hurling is imminent, running to the bathroom.)
After showering for about a week, I went home. A few days passed with zero contact between the two of us — she would call, I would avoid the situation. Until she decided to call my house at three in the morning.
“You better come and get your shit out of my house or it’s going out with the trash tomorrow.” Define irony: The girl who pooped on me telling me to get my shit out of her house.
My buddy and I headed over there, blissfully unaware of the insanity that awaited.
We pull up, and she’s standing at the door, salivating. She runs out of the house, spewing a deluge of obscenities and insults toward my manhood. My buddy and I begin to load his car with my belongings. Neighbors are waking up, turning on their porch lights and wondering what all the screaming is about. I was in hell.
At one point, I had a suitcase with clothes in it, and after carrying it to the car, I put it down to rearrange some things in the trunk. She seized the opportunity to go max-crazy by picking up the suitcase and hurling it down the street like a discus. Unsatisfied with her weak toss, she followed the suitcase down the avenue, picked it up a second time and once again heaved it further away from my friend’s car. Mind you, she never stopped cursing my existence while this mini-Olympics unfolded.
Then, things went berserk.
She ran into her house, screaming and crying and completely losing her shit. Her poor mother just stood there, watching the madness unfold.
I was outside at the time, but I watched her through a window in the kitchen as she opened a bottle of pills and took a swig. My friend sat in the driver’s seat of my VW minibus, pleading with me to just get in the car so we could leave. I should have listened.
Not only did she down a mouthful of pills, but she grabbed a big knife and came blasting through the screen door toward me. All around the mulberry bush I ran, being chased by an insane 18-year-old girl who wanted to filet me. Thankfully, she lost her footing and fell down, allowing me a tiny crevice of freedom. I hopped into my van, and we sped off towards sanity and safety.
I never went back to her house for the rest of my stuff and didn’t hear from her for quite some time. I found out through mutual friends that she had, in fact, tried to kill herself with the pills and ended up in the loony bin at the local hospital.
A few months later, I got a call from one of my former co-workers. After chatting for a few minutes, he asked me if my story of defecation was real.
“Of course it is.Why would I lie about some girl pooping on me?”
“I was just wondering, cause a buddy of mine says that he banged Dillon at a party, and she apparently did the same thing to him.”
Sounds like someone needs a new O-ring.
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