More About My Childhood, Marriage, Divorce, and Sobriety

I'm feeling rebellious today. Rebellious in the sense that I don't care that this is a sentence fragment. Rebellious in that I want to just be totally honest. True to myself.

I've always been an "A" student. What that means for me, is, I want everyone to like me, especially those in power. You teach me, I absorb what you teach and spit it back to you just the way you want it, you give me an "A", and we're both happy...except that I just had to bust my ass to please you and your bosses, and that's no fun. And guess what: I didn't actually learn anything. I absorbed what you were saying just long enough to release it back to you the way you wanted it (yes, like a sponge...clichés exist for a reason), and I went along my merry way very grateful that you like me now.

I give you all the power in the world. You are God. You must like me, or I die.



Things have changed for me in that regard. With the help of a spiritual awakening, I've realized that you are not God. You are imperfect. Your word isn't Gospel. You have no power over me. All power comes from something greater than both of us. And yet we are all One, One with everything. My molecules and atoms, my keyboards' molecules and atoms...the hairs on my arm, the leaves on a tree, you - it's all the same.

And the only time there is is Now. When you talk about the past, you are denying the present, unless the past has some direct usefulness to Now. When you talk about the future, you are illusioning (I turned "illusion" into a verb), unless you are actually taking a step Now toward a future goal (and the "end" is not real, only the "means", right Now). (Eckhart Tolle)

I've been running around to various groups of people trying to get "help". "I'm not good enough." "I don't have the answers -- you must have them." "I can't do this on my own." Thank you, every one; you have helped me. Thank you for showing me just how fallible humans are. Thank you for showing me that the only real answer lies beyond us all. And yet, it's not beyond us. It's within us each. I can look within, instead of only looking to you. My own Being is worth something. The "something greater" doesn't necessarily mean something "beyond" or "without". The something within is connected to something greater. And the "something greater" isn't the words that come out of your mouth (I know, awkward noun-verb agreement), unless you connect yourself to it first before you speak. I know not to "listen" to you, now, if what you are saying isn't...True. If you know what Truth is, then I might "listen" to you, if I know what's good for me. But if not, I won't...if I know what's good for me. And I'm starting to know what's good for me = not "listening" to everything everybody says all the time. (The term "listen" I use to mean, "take what people say as True".)



I grew up with a neglectful, alcoholic mother and her abusive, alcoholic boyfriend. Then, I lived with my neglectful, insane dad and his abusive, meth-addicted girlfriend. In both households, I was a "stupid little bitch" who needed to "shut her goddamn mouth."

Teachers in school were the only ones who showed me kindness. They transmitted "knowledge," and if I was able to re-transmit that "knowledge" back to them just the way they transmitted it to me, I earned a mark of excellence that signified success, approval. Knowledge gave me the power to earn what I really wanted: Love.

I had few friends; kids who don't get good grades don't like kids who do. You have to make a choice - don't get good grades, and be "loved" by the masses, or get good grades, and be "loved" by the teachers. Teachers were the ones in power; their "love" was worth more. And their "love" more closely resembled the kind of Love I wished I could have gotten from either of my parents, the adults in my life who were supposed to Love me.



So I did my homework in the classrooms at lunch instead of socialize. Then, when I was 17, my younger sister, also desperately in need of Love (but who chose "love" from friends over "love" from teachers), came to live with me at our grandma's house. Because she was "loved" by friends, she was invited to parties. I had a job and a car, so I took her to these parties. There was alcohol available. I drank and I socialized, and for the first time in my life, people my age "loved" me, and it felt wonderful. My senior year of high school marked the beginning of my double-life. I still strove for good grades so I could be "loved" by teachers, but I still went to parties and drank so I could be "loved" by peers. I was accepted to UC Berkeley, UC San Diego, UCLA, USC...and drove me, my sister, and my cousin home drunk nearly every weekend.

Then I met the alcoholic, heroin-addicted boy who would become my new best friend and later my boyfriend and later my husband. He Loved me very, very much, and I him. After I went off to (what in this blog I call SDSU, or UCLA; not sure which one I've chosen to falsely represent the real) college, my boyfriend got kicked out of his mom's house when she found some heroin in his drawer, and he came to live with me in my dorm room. I couldn't keep my grades up; I chose his Love over my teachers' "love" (it felt better, real), and dropped out, moved in with him at his grandma's house, went to a community college, and worked part-time. Later, he started to get his "Indian money" (his dad, who abandoned him and his mother after his birth, was from a tribe whose casino earned their members a good few grand a month; his dad enrolled him as a member before his dad took off), and we moved into a house together. My double-life continued, as I earned straight A's in school, tutored English, Algebra and Geometry for AVID at my high school alma mater...and was sometimes up til 3 am wandering the town as we waited for our heroin hook-up to bring us dope.



My boyfriend had been raised by a single, alcoholic, abusive mother and (because his dad was gone) her alcoholic, abusive father (although, his grandfather showed him Love and not the abuse he'd shown his children). When we were together, I became the alcoholic, drug-addicted abusive girlfriend/wife and he became the alcoholic, drug-addicted, abusive boyfriend/husband.

Then we had a child.

I couldn't let our child grow up in an alcoholic, drug-addled, abusive home. Absolutely 100% NO FUCKING WAY was I going to repeat the cycle for my son. It took a couple of years though, for things to finally change. We tried counseling, 12-step programs - but the one thing that we were trying to change - the fighting - was a result of the one thing we refused to change - the drinking (we had quit the heroin years before our son was conceived...and I managed to not drink while I was pregnant, but boy was I pissed).

I wasn't getting my husband's Love anymore, so - I needed to drink.  And I was determined that I could control my drinking, if only I just [insert anything imaginable]. Besides, my drinking wasn't as bad as his, so mine must not be that bad, right? It never occurred to us that the only way to control our drinking was not to drink in the first place. "To control and enjoy his drinking is the greatest obsession of every alcoholic." (Big Book, ch. 3). As alcoholics, we have an allergy of the body and an obsession of the mind. Once we take one drink, we develop what's known as the "phenomenon of craving". And that phenomenon is more powerful than we are.



I'm glad that I can report that we're both sober today. Unfortunately, we didn't get sober until after I left him and filed for divorce, two years and two-and-a-half months ago (on October 10, 2011). He's 5 months sober now, and I'm 22 months sober; he's had a harder go of it than I, but he also got started much younger: his mom offered him his first drink at age 8. He got into her marijuana by 10 and was using heroin, thanks to the local gang, by 12. But after 4 rehabs and a stint in jail, he's doing quite marvelously. We share custody of our son, who's now 4...and if we're lucky, won't end up nearly as fucked up as we.

I'm grateful to recovery groups, especially the one that shall not be named (per its traditions). My ex-husband is more involved in an outpatient rehabilitation program that focuses on chemical dependency and depression, and that's what's working for him. But for me, the 12 steps, meetings and sponsorship have been making possible for me to not drink or use, one day at a time. What I'll simply call "The Program" (in honor of the 11th tradition, which states, Our public relations policy is based on attraction rather than promotion; we need always maintain personal anonymity at the level of press, radio and films) has also taught me how to simply "live life" (which is good, since I didn't have anyone else to teach me that while growing up...I was only taught to regurgitate facts or to do "bad" things).



After I was in The Program for awhile, I thought I'd try to solve other "problem areas" of my life by going to other programs. For example, I tended to spend way too much money and am in a lot of debt, so I joined a program for that. And after I left my husband, I had a lot of boyfriends and haven't stayed with any of them, so I joined a program for that. They don't have a "Mom's Anonymous", or I'd have joined that one, too; I really need a lot of help there.

But in all truth, I still spend too much money, and I still have boyfriends/dates/sexual encounters. But I work on a budget every month, and it gets better. And I do try to be honest with any man I get involved with at any given time, so I'm really not being a "bad person" there, either. The mom thing - well, I'm doing better than my mom did, perhaps, bless her heart...I just keep trying to do my best, every day. And my ex-husband and I keep Child Welfare Services (formally CPS) close by (i.e., we call them on each other at least once a month, lol); they're a big help.

I stopped going to the debt program, and am considering discontinuing to go to sex program, too. The program for alcoholics is the mother of all 12-step programs, after all, so why look any further for my development (in terms of 12-step programs)? Yeah, it's nice to go be around people with the same "problems" I have. But many of them aren't using the solution - the 12 steps -in the way that people do in The Program. The latter is a well-oiled machine. And if it ain't broke, don't fix it, right?



The Program also has a set of 12 Traditions that keeps it together. In these other 12-step programs, even if people work the steps (and many of them don't), people have no idea that there are also set of traditions that helps the 12-step program work for everyone (unless they are also members The Program, the only requirement for which is a desire to stop drinking: tradition 3). I am glad non-alcoholics do have access to a 12-step program for whatever ails them. But The Program was the first and the basis for all of them. That's why in The Program we say we're "grateful" alcoholics.

When it comes down to it, though, all one really needs to do for a successful, happy life, I'm told, is be honest, kind, tolerant, and loving, and free oneself of fear, resentment, dishonesty and selfishness (but not to the extent that one hurts his/her self: "to thine own self be true"). Self-preservation is really a by-product of helping others and yourself, apparently. It seems paradoxical, but it isn't: You only "keep it" if you "give it away", a saying goes. That's why the truly enlightened are always teachers (although there are many "teachers", in the most basic sense of the word, who aren't enlightened, which is the reason for this post in the first place, if you scroll back up).



Just for kicks, if you're curious, I'll share here the 12 steps which are suggested as a program of recovery from that state of complete powerlessness:

1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol - that our lives had become unmanageable.

2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

5. Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

6. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.

7. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.

8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.

9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.

11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.

12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

So, it's really pretty simple. Admit you have a problem, clean house, make amends, and help others. If 12 steps seems lofty, check out the documentary that explains their evolution: Bill W. - Where do we aim what we thirst for? For more information, or if you think you may have a problem controlling your drinking, you can search online for a meeting (here is the website I used to find my first meeting: http://www.simeetings.com/LA/CalCountiesMtgIndex.html). The meeting is where it all begins.

If you aren't an alcoholic, Don Miguel Ruiz, in his book The Four Agreements (summarized here very well), also teaches us "how to live," with four simple commands: (1) "Be impeccable with your word." (2) "Don't take anything personally." (3) "Don't make assumptions." And (4) "Always do your best."



Then there's Eckhart Tolle, with The Power of Now. Here's a paragraph from his book that summarizes his philosophy for living quite well:

Always say "yes" to the present moment. What could be more futile, more insane, than to create inner resistance to something that already is? What could be more insane than to oppose life itself, which is now and always now? Surrender to what is. Say "yes" to life -- and see how life suddenly starts working for you rather than against you. (Tolle, 35)

 

And "The Cave Allegory" in Plato's Republic is highly illluminating.

So anyway...this post may have turned into proselytizing. I've used the term "you" loosely. But I'm just grateful to be learning new ways to live and to be happy other than needing people to love me, and I thought I'd share it all. I've realized how much power I've been giving people all my life, and how little power I've allowed my own self. I've also now subscribed to Psychology Today and have begun reading The Revolution: A Manifesto by Ron Paul. I'm trying not to assign God-like power to any of these works of words by people...but they are helping (along with, my favorite, the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous) to liberate me from assigning most people God-like power.

This is my Awakening. I'm 30 years old. Better late than never. I am so very grateful for those teachers who, however imperfect themselves, have taught me how to live as opposed to simply regurgitate information for their "love": Gautama Buddha, Plato, Jesus of Nazareth, Carl Jung, America's "Founding Fathers", The Oxford Groups, William G. Wilson, Ron Paul, Eckhart Tolle, Don Miguel Ruiz, Wayne Dyer, Rocco Versaci, Martha Margo Flores, Rich W, Christal Q....and last but always first, God.

And for the record: I'm still fucked up, and what I say isn't Gospel, either. I'm just like you. Hell...I am you. And I do Love you...because, for the first time in my life...I Love me.

How This Whole Thing Started: The Husband, the Pizza Delivery Boyfriend, the Acapulco Parking Lot (recap), and The Sexophone Player

Three weeks prior to the night before my ten-year high school reunion when I went to an Acapulco for a 300-dollar karaoke contest and cheated on my boyfriend (for whom I'd left my husband) by having sex in the parking lot with a guy I didn't even know, I had punched my husband square in the jaw during a melee struggle over a box of bills that I was trying to get from the apartment to file for divorce.

The only explanation I can give for a five-foot, hundred-and-ten-pound woman giving a six-foot, two-hundred-and-ninety-five-pound man a concussion is that he's a Muay Thai/Boxing/MMA aficionado...and a very good teacher. Of course, I didn't know that I had given him a concussion, because I left in a flash of victory, box in hand.

The next day, when I went over to pick up our son to spend time with him, before I could unbuckle my seatbelt, my dear mother-in-law flew towards me down the steps with papers in hand, outstretched towards my now-cracked window. She dropped them inside and flew away again, without a word. I read them, and I wept. And I wept, and I wept, and I screamed at the top of my lungs until I was completely spent, and I sped to the courthouse to see if there was any way I could get that restraining order lifted, but no - there was not. I would have to wait until after Christmas for the court date. And the only way I knew to medicate that indescribable, excruciating pain of having a mother's not-even-weaned child taken away from her was with: karaoke.

I started off with a beer at the brewery across the parking lot, and I was tipsy. I had also tipped and tumbled over that cliff of insanity upon which I had been teetering. I didn't invite my new boyfriend to go with me and because I went to the bar alone, of course, a man came up to me, sat down, offered to buy me a drink, I accepted, he bought me more, and more, I tore up that Adele in not a good way - I was completely drunk - and I realized...I don't even like this guy. What the hell am I even doing here?

I tried to get rid of him: I hid in the bathroom, but he waited. I went to my car to "charge my phone," but he followed me. I told him about my husband and my son, and he told me about his wife and his son. We exchanged pictures and stories of pain. He invited me to Salsa and I tried to wear him out...but he wore me out. I wasn't accustomed to heels.

Finally...he asked if we could go to his car to charge his phone. We started kissing, he wanted to go further, and I conceded, because, well, nothing else had worked to get rid of him and I figured this must be the only way. I acted like it was good, like any not-self-respecting bar slut would.

Aww, but he was sad when I told him afterward that - oops, actually - I had a boyfriend, and, I really didn't like the fact that I'd just cheated on him, so, "Sorry, Angel...I can't see you again. Take care. Bye."


Rewind:

My husband was drowning in alcoholism, verbally, emotionally, physically terrifying. He punched holes in walls, kicked doors down while our son and I hid, took my phone so I couldn't dial 9-1-1, blocked the front door. There was no escape, nowhere to go, except to work, where I went, leaving our son with his award-winning father.

There was a new delivery driver at Pizza Hut where I was assistant manager. He was kind, funny, had beautiful eyes, tall, was single, my age, an artist, had been to three universities, like me. He had been living with a Chinese lady while going to school #3, but when her house was foreclosed, he dropped out, moved home, and was living with his mom in his stepdad's mansion. They had just moved into our little town from the OC.

We sometimes worked alone together, and on those days, Evan and I shared the most intimate colloquy. I cried about my marriage, and he said, "You should leave your husband"...and in my head, I inserted the words..."for me."

I finally did leave him, five months after I met Evan, after Ronnie had made out with some women at a bar and threatened me with divorce for the sixth time. It was a violent fight. I tried to get a hold of our son to protect him and take him with me, but Ronnie grabbed him and wouldn't let him go. I hit Ronnie and tried to get our son away from him, but he was too strong. And then I realized that I'd become my mother...and I left, crying.

I texted Evan while driving, nervously, beside myself: "I did it. I left. I don't know what to do now...".

He responded, after a moment, "Come over." It's exactly what I hoped he would say.

I said, "I can't...I'm scared." It was the truth. Could I? Should I?

And he texted me, "Then let's get to the scary part."

He sent his address, I drove over, we did get to "the scary part," over, and over, and over, starting in his driveway before making our way inside, for three hours - then, we took a break to eat the exquisite salmon dinner he prepared, with buttered collard greens and paprika mashed potatoes, over wine - and then we did four more hours of the "scary part" all over his parents' house.

So this is what sex is supposed to feel like, I thought. This is what love is supposed to feel like.

I told him I loved him after only two weeks. I really felt it. But Evan didn't react he way I'd hoped, this time.

"Oh no...don't use those words," he said.

I couldn't believe it. I was shocked as he was. "Oh...I'm sorry," I said, sheepishly.

I was heartbroken. How did this happen? This is who I left my husband to be with? I tried breaking up with him, but he didn't want that, either, of course. But I couldn't be with him any more. It hurt too much. Pain on top of pain.

So, since I'd had sex with Evan for four hours a day for over a month, I'd had sex with someone totally random in the parking lot at Acapulco, I decided I'd go have sex with someone I really wanted to have sex with. I had just wanted this hot saxophone player I'd had a huge crush on in college, for years. And I thought, ah! This will certainly assist with the getting-rid-of-the-guy-who-helped-break-apart-my-marriage-but-who-doesn't-actually-love-me dealio, and, since I was having so much sex anyway...hey...what's one more?

I specifically did not invite Evan to my ten-year high school reunion the next day so that, before the event, I could stop off over at Rico's Vineyard. The way I saw it, we had some unfinished business.

Rico and I were in jazz together at SDSU in 2008. I sang Corcovado, and he got the sax solo. He was the sexiest man I'd ever seen. Italian, tall, dark, handsome, eyes that watched me intently from the moment we first saw each other. He'd look at me while playing his sax with his sensuous lips and hands, as if to say, I want you, I want you to know that I want you, and one of these days, I'm gonna take you, woman. I was tantalized. Powerless.

He invited me over to his house to practice before our performance at his parents' winery in Rancho Cucamonga. We didn't actually practice, although I actually thought we would. He made me a margarita and we went to his room, where he started changing into his performance attire, right in front of me. He asked me if I had a boyfriend while he was unbuttoning his shirt, slowly. I said, "Oh...well...yes". He was bummed. So was I.

But there was still an air between us, as if at any moment one of us might just grab the other in a sudden act of passion. I downed my margarita hoping it'd be sooner than later. No such luck. When he was done getting his clothes on, he offered to give me a ride over to the country club up the road where the performance was to be, having me leave my car at his house. Not too implicit.

Later, after the gig, he took a detour on the way back to my car. He wanted to take me on a golf cart around the winery. So off we went, at dusk. It was beautiful, like him. Between the vines, he stopped the cart, leaned over, and kissed me on the neck. I let his lips linger - they were warm, soft, and wet. My breath became heavy. My body was thrilled.

But I stopped him. I managed to utter, barely above a whisper, "I'm sorry...I can't." I had wanted to...so badly. But I still had a somewhat-functioning moral compass, at this time, and I didn't want to cheat on my boyfriend of six years with whom I lived (even though I hated him with an equal passion). So Rico dropped me back off at my car, and I drove home.

When I got home, Ronnie was drunk with his uncle on the couch, as usual. I was disgusted with both of them, as usual. Ronnie and I got into a huge fight and I ended up spending the night in my car in the driveway. I texted and tried to call Rico for hours, but, no response. I was pissed at myself for losing my chance. I cried myself to sleep, and I dreamt of Rico.

After that, Rico and I started sexting each other and chatting online. He told me one day in a chat that he wanted to - get this - fuck me in the ass. I wouldn't even let my boyfriend do that. And I still didn't want to cheat on Ronnie. And didn't know if I wanted to leave him, either, just so I could go indulge in some risqué activity? Would I leave Ronnie, give up my place to live, to fulfill a sexual fantasy? I emailed my best friend to ask her what she thought.

"Oh my God, don't do it! Don't let him fuck you in the ass! Ewwwwww! Gross!" she emailed me back her shocked response.

The next morning, Ronnie asked to use my laptop while I was in the shower since his had a virus, and I said, "Sure, honey!" I'd completely forgotten that the last thing I'd done was read my email. Eva's response was still open on the screen.

I was still showering when Ronnie burst in and demanded to know what it was all about and who the guy was and what I was doing and what I was planning on doing - and really, what the fuck? - and it caused the fight to end all fights (for now), culminating in Ronnie throwing some of my clothes into a suitcase and me finishing the job and storming out and taking the bus and train to Eva's house to live.

Ronnie got a hold of Rico's phone number. In my distress, I had left my phone behind. Before that, after Ronnie badgering me for hours, I had told him who the other guy was. So Ronnie called Rico and warned him to stay away from me (and Ronnie told me later that Rico cried like a little girl and blamed me for everything). I didn't hear from Rico again, and a couple of months later, I went back to Ronnie after we talked things out. He asked me to marry him. We would stop drinking, get married, and have a baby - that would fix everything.

In November 2011, three years later, I left Ronnie for good, for the pizza delivery boy. Now, I needed to leave Evan, too. As aforementioned I had already demoralized myself with someone totally random, so, I figured I might as well go ahead and do some of those nasty little things with Rico. He was the hottest guy on the planet, after all, to me - even though he was an asshole.

I got his number again from facebook and I texted him. I couldn't wait. We "sexted" about all the things we were gonna do to each other. He was okay with it now that Ronnie was out of the picture. He even agreed to meet with me that very night, before my high school reunion. So I went out and bought a slutty black dress and some slutty black heels and some slutty black thigh-high panty hose, a new bra, a new G-string - I felt completely ridiculous. I could hardly walk; the heels were so high, my feet kept tipping over. The dress was so short I had to keep pulling it down to cover the tops of the thigh-highs, and when I did, it would reveal my bra so I had to re-adjust the dress  some more, because come on, I didn't know who I was gonna see out there. I'm a T-shirt and jeans kinda girl - shy, book-nerd, tomboy-ish, don't even wear dresses - and if any one I knew had seen me, they really would have thought, WTF?

But once I practiced walking like a model in my room for awhile, I was good to go. I totally "tee-hee"d as I tiptoed out to my car after making sure that my aunt and uncle weren't around to catch me.

Tee hee...

I pulled up to the winery and waited for Rico to come pick me up at my car as planned, leaning against the bumper, half-sitting, half-standing, shifting around, trying to look calm, cool, sexy. Finally, he screeched up alongside me in his white BMW. It reminded me of the time I was his passenger the night of that gig, when we screeched past a homeless guy and he spit out the window, saying, " 'Get the fuck outta here, homeless trash!' Fuckin' bum."

Rico shouted at me to "Get in!" I did, walking carefully. He sped off for a short distance before pulling over on the side of the road in the darkness. I thought we'd be going to his house, but apparently not. I wasn't really sure what to make of all this. But I wanted to be sexy, so, I started to try and unbutton his pants from where I was sitting. But he snapped at me: "Did I fucking tell you to fucking touch me? Don't you fucking touch me until I tell you to touch me, bitch." I laughed and said, "Okay," like it was no big deal. I didn't let him know how fucking scared I was.

I wrestle with how much detail to go into here, so I'll just share the facts:

Rico made me shove my fist up his ass while he made me shove my fist up mine while he shoved his fingers inside of me and shoved my head so far down on his cock for so long that it hurt like fucking hell, and I threw up, and he made me swallow my own fucking vomit before he let loose his fucking load into my throat and made me swallow that, fucking, too.

When it was over he all but shoved me out of his car back at my car before pealing away. He might as well have spit on me, too. Hell, he might have; I don't remember. I was in a bit of shock.

I got into my car and I just sat there for a moment. My throat and my heart hurt. Before I knew it, I found myself holding my throbbing throat as I sobbed, hard. I screamed and I cried and I drove on the freeway towards the racetrack country club where the reunion was, but I pulled myself together so that I could change, while driving, into my jeans and into my plaid button-up shirt and into my converse shoes (and into me again). I re-did my smudged make-up and brushed my wet, tangled hair. I sprayed myself with perfume, because I stank like cum.

When I got to the reunion, I answered a call from Evan, and told him no, he couldn't come. I went in, said hi to a few people I hardly knew (Eva was my only real friend in high school, and she wasn't there), made my way to the bar, sat down, ordered a single-barrel jack-and-coke double, and downed it. Then I ordered another. And then another. And then...I was...sort of...okay.

If you thought it was bad with my husband, and you thought it was bad with #1: The Pizza Delivery Boyfriend, and you thought it was bad with #2: The Acapulco Parking Lot, and you thought it was bad with #3: The Sexophone Player...*laugh*. That was just the beginning. I still had numbers 4 through 8 to go...

...that very night.