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There’s nothing worse than feeling true betrayal in a relationship. There are many different flavors of getting stabbed in the spine. Having your girlfriend cheat on you with your best friend while your other best friend videotapes it and submits it to French film festivals. Finding out your girlfriend was the one who shot Biggie AND 2pac, and she’s not even sorry. Finding out your girl changed the Netflix password without asking and added a bunch of Nicholas Cage movies to your queue. The list goes on and on.
In the not-so-distant past, I was betrayed by a cruel, coldhearted wench who wouldn’t control her bladder, and psychologically manipulated me into thinking I was responsible for her messes. It was traumatizing to say the least.
I dated this girl for a while. Most Fridays and Saturdays, we’d go out partying with a group of friends. We’d go to a bar or a club, get super annihilated, and make questionable decisions that became blurry anecdotes. It was a fun chapter of my life. She’d spend the night at my place a lot, especially on the nights of our intoxicated misadventures. I always got slightly drunker than her so she’d basically babysit my stupid ass when she sobered up before me.
One night we went out and I got hammered like Jesus’ hand. She drank but not quite as much. We got home from the bar and stumbled to my bed. I quickly fall into a deep, beautiful REM sleep, filled with pleasant dreams of punching my 7th grader math teacher and constructing a Go-Kart with Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson.
The next morning, I wake up and the bed has a giant yellow stain. The sheet smells like a dirty urinal in a rest stop restroom and I feel like I’m gonna vomit all my organs out from the stench. I nudge my girlfriend awake. I’m confused and pissed off. She wakes up, kinda startled, and I put on my detective hat and start asking the tough questions. Time to investigate.
I ask her about the massive piss puddle that has bombed my poor innocent mattress. She told me I peed the bed last night because I was so drunk. My gullible ass believed her. Why wouldn’t I? I was definitely drunk enough that I wouldn’t have remembered. I immediately got super embarrassed. Like, “boner in 5th grade and I had to stand up in class” embarrassed or “someone noticed I have every Taylor Swift album on my iPhone” embarrassed.
I apologize profusely and she accepts my apology willingly, laughing it off. I was grateful. Any sane woman would have justifiably strangled her boyfriend to death if he peed the bed. I obviously washed the sheet.
Fast forward a week later. We party all night again. She crashes on my bed with me. I wake up, and there’s another yellow painting on the sheet. I flip the fuck out. She tells me it was me again. Damn! I wash the sheet again and showered for 21 hours straight to try wash all the shame off (didn’t even work). I believed her again. My dumbass peeing the bed when I slept drunk? That wasn’t too implausible. I thought I had a serious problem.
For the next three weeks, this happened again every weekend. I was furious at myself. What the fuck was wrong with me? Why was I now a nocturnal version of the white R. Kelly? I felt disgusting, then I realized something important. I have an epiphany and a lightbulb appears over my head.
I had been drinking for years, so why was this just starting now? If my bladder hated me when I was drunk, why wouldn’t it have told me years ago? Why did my body now suddenly decide to empty my bladder every damn time like it’s a new religious tradition?
I put my detective hat back on and ask my girlfriend about it. This time, I take all her answers with a grain of salt. I aggressively interrogate her with a suspicious tone and she eventually confesses that she was responsible for these crimes against humanity.
She tells me all the pee was her. Every last damn drop. She said she took advantage of my drunkenness and used it as an excuse to pin the crimes on me. Why would she do such a thing? Well, to paraphrase a quote from The Dark Knight, “some (wo)men just want to watch the world burn.”
What’s the point of the story? If you don’t know her, make her sleep on the couch..