Since I’ve been running a “dish dirt on your Ex” contest, it only seems fitting that I tell some stories about the lucky (and unlucky) guys from my past. Really, as I sit here thinking about it, I realize that most of my exes were truly nice guys. I suppose this comes from trying to date nice guys in the first place. (I only went for the bad-boy type once, and then ended that relationship pretty quickly. I wanted to spend my time with guys who inspired me, not ones I had to reform.)
Still there were a few memorable guys.
The worst: David K, who broke up with me right before I went off to college. Yeah, that was a lot of fun. I spent my first night at college crying myself to sleep and wondering what was wrong with me. What a great way to start your adulthood and impress your roommates. Which is why he wins the Supreme Jerk award from my past. Hadn’t he ever heard the idea of letting long distance relationships die an easy, natural death?
Runner up: Ben C who acted like he was totally into me and then after we’d been dating a couple of weeks asked out my roommate. That’s class for you. Luckily neither I nor my roommate liked him too much (All brawn and no brain) so at least we both learned quickly what type of guy he was.
The Good Ex-boyfriend: Hmmm, it’s really hard to choose one since as I said before so many of the guys I dated were really nice. There was Eric Brown who liked me even though I met him under false pretenses. A friend of mine and I were pretending to be twins at a dance (because so many people had previously told us we looked alike—this is the sort of thing you do when you’re 16 and your names are Jeane and Janette).
But then after concocting this tale for an entire week, I realized I liked the guy, wanted to have a relationship with him, and had to come clean and tell him the truth. (And you people wonder where I get my plot ideas from.)
There was John Stucki who so miraculously popped into my life when I was a sophomore—and was so teenage-girl-dream-perfect that his presence alone convinced me that God loved me. One day I’ll have to write an entire essay about him. His story is definitely the stuff fiction is made of. I don’t have a picture of him. I used to have one in my wallet, but when I went to college someone stole it out of my purse. That was how good looking he was.
There was Stuart Hirschfeld, who I completely absolve of asking Jessie Lipe to prom instead of me, because after I moved away from Washington he wrote me faithfully—more faithfully than any of my girlfriends, I might add—all the way up until I got married. In an odd twist of fate, about a year ago he found my website, we caught up on old times, and I sent him all of his letters. So many were journal entries really, that they belonged with him.
And lastly there was Devon Felsted—who took me to prom that year when Stuart went with Jessie. He still lives in my home town of Pullman, Washington and so for Revenge of the Cheerleaders, which is set there, he was my contact for all things Pullman. I was constantly besieging him with important questions like: Is the Baskin Robbins still there? How many pep-assemblies do the students have during a year? He even read the completed manuscript for accuracy. How many ex-boyfriends would go to all that work for you?
Didn’t I tell you they were nice?
So now that I’ve gone strolling down memory lane (and thought of many more stories I’ll have to tell at some later, more extensive time period) check out some other people’s Ex stories on my website.
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