What a piece of shit. Is there a worse way to spend your Christmas than discovering by accident that your boyfriend has been fucking around behind your back? As I dash across the curb to reach the driver’s door and get myself the hell out of here, I nearly collapse at the sight before me. Oh my fucking god. Not right now. No, please, no. The front tire on my car is as deflated as my stomped-on little heart. Sitting flaccid and drooped, helpfully lit up for me to see that I cannot possibly drive away from here by the array of red flashing Christmas lights on the fence of the house I parked in
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