Friday, June 3, 2016

The Nail In The Coffin...The Final Return Of Cat Woman

Dear Cat Woman,

It has been almost 3 years since our last encounter. You remember...the Star Wars themed wedding. Where my gameplan backfired and the night ended with me walking in on you in your Chewbacca costume blowing Darth Vader. Remember that? I'm sure you did.

It was Memorial Day so I decided to hit up my local watering hole in hopes to find some desperate soul looking for a good time. An hour passes, I'm feeling good, the bar is packed, I look towards the door (as if God himself was telling me to look that way), then you walked in.

Thinner. More put together. Confident.

Was this a dream? Was I that drunk that I thought it was you and it ended up being just a random broad? was you. In all your glory.

You: "It's been awhile."

Me: "Sure has."

You: "How's things?"

Me: "You're looking at it?"

You: "Drunk?"

Me: "Drunk and fucking dandy. How's Darth Vader?"

You: "Don't tell me YOU are jealous that you caught me blowing that guy?"

Me: "Me? That's a negative Ghost Rider. Anyway, have a seat. Great to see you."

You sat down and we start to pound shots and eat hot wings. It was like you never left and we parted ways. Still amazed at how much weight you lost, I had to ask...

Me: "So what magic pill did you take to look so good?"

You: "Gastric bypass. Went from 300 to 225. My tits look great, don't they?"

Me: "Gastric, huh? Nice. And yes, your tits actually look like tits and not peaks and valleys."

You: "You're such a dick."

Me: "That's why you love blowing me, right?"

You: "So I have a confession to make?"

Me: "Oh really? Do tell."

You: "So are you friends with a pretty gal named Sara on Facebook?"

Me: "Yeah, she told me she met me at a bar when I was wasted. Don't recall, but whatever. Why do you ask?"

You: "Well,  Sara doesn't exist because I'm Sara."

Me: "Bitch, are you saying you catfished me?"

You: "Kindaaaa?? It's for good reason though. I wanted to show you how much I've changed. That's why I'm here today."

Me: "WTF is going on with my life right now?"

For some reason, I couldn't get mad at your confession. I mean, fuck, you lost weight and you did some shit to try and impress me. Catfishing the fuck out of me was wrong because that bitch "Sara" was hot as fuck. Wait...I think that bitch was on Nickelodeon. This cunt. SMH.

Anyway, I wasn't mad. I was actually quite turned on. Yeah, I'm weird like that, my beefy goddamn gordita. I don't know what the fuck it is, but your tits and belly rolls turn me the fuck on. Shit, did I just say that out loud?

Two hours go by and you're drunk as fuck. Me on the other hand...stone cold sober.

You: "Since my surgery, I haven't been able to drink like I used to."

Me: "You used to be able to drink enough to kill a farm of sheep. That's not a bad thing."

You: "Wanna get out of here?"

Me: "Mos def."

We head back to your place because let's be fucking way am I gonna take you back to my place where you could potentially stalk me, come over and leave my sorry ass for dead. No thanks.

Within minutes we get back to where it all started.


Nothing fucking changes does it? Sure you lost some goddamn weight but your place...Jesus fucking Christ. Why?

Your house from end to end was still like a scene from Hoarders. Sure enough, like before, I wasn't sure if I was smelling cat shit, your shit, shit from 1955 or an open trench of decomposed bodies lurking from your backyard. I actually threw up in my mouth a few times...AGAIN. Great to be back here in hell! Thanks, Jenny Craig.

Who was there to greet me again with hissing? That fat motherfucking, loving piece of shit, "French Fry".  Why the hell am I here again?

And the hair...bitch, have you vacuumed since I was here almost 3 years ago? Because I swear to fucking God, I walked in and was greeted with a fur fucking coat around my body. I almost thought you were housing a family of fucking eskimos. For fucks sake, Rosie O'Donnell. Clean your fucking pad...please!!!!

And although you may have lost weight and have a lower drinking tolerance, you and your goddamn  Kool-Aid and bologna sandwiches. Still couldn't spot one fruit or vegetable at your place. Why did you get Gastric again?

To no avail, there were those same three cats taking a shit. One on the couch. One in the kitchen. One by your foot. As I stood there looking confused, yet again, the only thing you could say was, "Ooopsy, poopsy poopsy."

It was groundhog day all over again. Then shit got real and real nasty...

You became aggressive as if I was that little boy who fell in that gorilla enclosure and you were the Gorilla, Harambe, dragging me around like a rag doll. For a chick who lost some poundage, you still were as strong as an overweight ox, Precious.

You decided to powerbomb me onto the bed and asked if I wanted a famous "cat woman" bj. I obliged, then you ripped off my clothes as if I had extra laundry chilling on the floor or something. BTW, you owe me $120 for fucking up my pants, shirt and my dress socks.  Bitch.

You're naked. I'm naked. Shit was getting hot and heavy...and when I say heavy, I mean that literally and figuratively. Man, you were the last big bitch I was with, so this took some getting used to. Anyway, you wanted to ride me and how could I say no. You straddle me and wet as a waterfall, my cock slid right it.

You were tight. Tighter than I remember. This losing weight shit ain't no joke I guess. Improvements in all places...even your vagina. If this is heaven, I don't want to leave.

Grinding me like you were grinding ground beef, you took your time. Moaning and meowing, you gave it to me. Then I heard it...


Was that your stomach that was making noise?


Please don't tell me your ass is hungry again?


It was at that third go-around that I knew something was about to go down. The look on your face said it all. It was of pure concern, terror but yet, calmness. Then it happened...


All over my balls. Into the crevice of my buttcheeks. You shit all over me and couldn't stop.

Me: "What in the actual fuck is happening right now and why are you still sitting on top of me?!?!?!?!"

You: "OMG...THIS IS SOOOO FUCKING EMBARRASSING. I shouldn't have eaten all those wings! Why didn't I listen to my doctor?!"

So apparently, when motherfuckers get gastric bypass surgery, one of the side effects is called dumping syndrome. Basically your body moves food from your stomach to your intestines too quickly and it can cause loose stools and diarrhea. One thing you shouldn't eat is shit like hot wings. Where were we? Oh yeah, me being shit on...

Me: "Again, why are you still sitting on top of me?!"

You jump off and rush to the bathroom and get in the shower...sobbing. Screaming. Yelling. Yet, there I was, lying on the bed, covered in human fucking shit. It got to the point that I threw up everywhere. That didn't help because your 28 million fucking cats ended up coming into the room and eating it. God, this is like a bad fucking movie you can't escape from that's set on repeat til you go blind.

Why me? Why did I have to run into you? Why did I agree to get down to get down with you when I should have known better? And why did you not offer to let me in the shower first? Did you get shit on, woman? No. You sure fucking didn't. I did. WTF did you eat besides those wings, by the way? I know shit don't smell good, but for the love of God, woman...whatever your diet consist of, stop it immediately. I thought my skin was falling off.

I've never been more grossed out like I was that day. I mean, I got shit on. So much that you couldn't control it and you just did it til you finished.

You headed to another room after you got done cleaning up. That's when I finally hit the bathroom and held myself since I was more violated than a roomful of kids that Jared from Subway would love to play with. Yeah, it was that bad.

It took me a good 30 minutes to get cleaned off but when I was done, I put my clothes back on, left the remnants of dookie and puke for you to manage and said no goodbyes.

I needed closure and I think this was it.

Goodbye forever, Cat Woman Shitapotamus Rex.


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