Blech.

I've decided that the weirdest feeling I've thus experienced, in my adult life, is the feeling I got a short time ago as my boyfriend's ex wife kept checking out my rack. Again and again.

She is foul in every sense of the word, from her saccharine over-excitedness to talk to me down to her stained 1980's tennis shoes. It is poetic justice when someone's outsides match their insides. Karma in action, if you will.

She talks so rapidly that it took all of my composure not to shove my fist into her larynx. The horror of her stained "mom" jeans (the high waisted, camel toe enhanced sort - not that her camel toe was visible under her massive roll of stomach fat... I'm not skinny, but I'm just saying...) paired with the debacle of her plaque encrusted teeth and her ratty hair, badly in need of a trim and with three days worth of grease and oil soaking it was only matched by her boyfriend - a stench so ripe that my cat would cover him up at the beach, with salt and pepper balding greased locks of his own, complete with zero personality (she obviously does the non-stop talking) and the crowning jewel of his totalitarian white trashed-ness: the Child Molester glasses.

It's apparent that she has indeed met her match.

The children are glad to be home. Dave of course is glad they are, and I am too. Because they deserve so much better than what pathetic attempt of nurturing she has to offer them. And it has nothing to do with poverty - it has to do with basic hygiene and self respect. It has to do with the fact that she returned them two days before the end of their spring break because of the fact that they wanted to attend a swap meet, and they are staying at her friend's house, and this friend's significant other is a registered sex offender. It has to do with the fact that she can't send her measly child support check on time, or call her kids more than once every three weeks.
In a way I'm grateful she checked out though, as her influence obviously is better off being minimal.

So yeah, go ahead and check out my rack, bitch. I won't deny you the small pleasures of life. In the mean time I'm busy loving the man you treated with disrespect in the worst manner possible, and thanks to your supreme shittiness he appreciates more than just my rack. It's hard to believe you ever had anything to offer him.