Jesus Wasn’t Irish

7 years ago.  I will never forget meeting my husband’s ex-one-night-stand/girl-friend/she was using him for attention/whatever girl after only a month of knowing and being married to Nathan.  That’s right, I proposed after a month. I didn’t want to meet her, it was just weird.  But my new stranger-Husband strong armed me into that Lion’s den.  After talking to her a while, I picked up on obvious jealousy and obvious, I-am-going-to-take-you-down vibes.  It was intimidating and scary.  So she began passive aggressively attacking me in front of Nathan and her cologne-drenched business boyfriend.  Of course the men did not pick up on that.  You need to have a pussy to know what the fuck is going on in the world when it comes to love and lust language.  So after a super awkward conversation took place about how Nathan would not write me a song (nathan is a musician) because he only writes songs about “girls that break his heart”.  She hit a super duper mighty delicate ready to explode nerve when she said, “Awww, Nathan, that is mean!  Poor Tara!  You should write a song about her. I mean, you wrote one for me.  She should have one too.”   She then proceeded to challenge me to a “friendly” arm wrestle (that is sooo normal, right?), which I lost.  And she began a causal, friendly conversation discussing her talent for ballet and booty dancing and how everyone tells her she has “bedroom eyes”.  When Nathan was performing and her boyfriend was in the bathroom, she explained to me how I would never take her place in Nathan’s heart.  Hmm, thats nice.  I am picturing your death right now and hoping it will be painful, but I guess I will continue to sit here and endure your jealous vagina monologue.  Nathan did not and will never understand what she was doing.  I knew what she was doing.  She was being what the french call, “a stupid fucking cunt whore –  i hate you why did i have to meet you bitch he’s mine get over it – actually you can take him – i hate him right now – but you never wanted him – so what’s your fucking problem – if you liked it then you should have put a ring on it – bitch from hell”.  I love the french.

God what a fucking asshole.  To make it even better, we were on Tour,  so the “crash pad” we had waiting for us, was her Grandma’s house.  And her Grandma was more of a stupid whore than that cunt could ever hope to be.  You know the kind of Granny I am talking about.  She’s got a certain sway to her walk.  She’s got a certain crease to her inappropriately fitting khakis that hug her osteoporosis hips like a snake’s skin hugs it’s innards.  Her bright white coifed mane has a devious sparkle to it.  Her voice has a ever so slight trannie rasp with a flirtatious bubbly upturn in her pitch at the end of each sentence.  Her fingers linger a bit too long after she accidently pets your hand when handing you your oatmeal spoon.  Her kitchen looks slutty.  Her jewelry looks 15th century whorish and too delicate.  Her light fixtures intimidate you with their sleek curves.  Her home has a stench of seductive jasmine scents laced with moth balls and rancid cereal.  She gives you a slightly sleazy, aloof look like she hopes you accidentally stumble across her flesh-toned, 11-inch vibrator wrapped in a lace doily while you are snooping through her drawers searching for signs of normal human qualities.  She is a mega slut.  The Queen of the sluts.  And I am in her home.  There are giant framed glamour shots of her Mega slut seductress granddaughter plaguing me throughout the house on my way to brush my teeth.  I have to sleep in her ping-pong table room with my stranger-husband who I am now contemplating castrating for putting me in this situation.

I got out of there alive.  She traumatized me, but I am still standing.  And Nathan and I are still in love (and in hate, ya know..marriage).  From what one of my annual “why not torture myself today, lets google-stalk some people you hate” days (I only allow one of these days per year), I discovered she is recently divorced.  Which was extremely comforting.  People like her are not allowed to be happy.  They are just too horrible.  Okay, maybe this is immature.  I do claim to be a Jesus lover.  So I guess I should “forgive” all of the parties involved.  But Jesus wasn’t Irish.  Irish people have vivid memories, hold grudges and get pissed easily.   So no forgiving will be taking place soon for the devil seductress and I am okay with that.  I actually prefer it that way.  And I will trip her if she ever walks by me, and I will laugh really hard if she breaks her ankle.  But if she died, I would probably feel sad for her, but ask God to keep her out of heaven or at least keep her in the West wing of Heaven and keep me and my family and my dog in the East wing.

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