Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prick

I met ______ when I was hospitalized for jumping off an 80 ft. waterfall. We don't say his name, because to say his name would be to willingly put shit in your own mouth. Nobody does that, not willingly. For the purposes of this anecdote he who shall not be named will be chronicled under the alias Voldemort.

Love at first sight would be a ridiculous understatement. Literally, I saw him and loved him instantly. It happened in such perfect tandem, one swift moment. I let him fuck me on the first date because I KNEW it was love. I was elated that my mother had insisted I wake up and put on my make up the day I met Voldemort. She declared it necessary to always look your best, because you just never knew who you were going to meet. God forbid you look like a trainwreck in Walgreens, because you might not have the chance to fall in love if you look like shit when you're trying to buy tampons and SpaghettiOs at ten o' clock at night!

Our first date was basically a 50/50 split between hopelessly sucking face and deciding which pieces of his furniture were going to be better suited for my  place. I picked out his pair of bedside tables that were crafted from old pallets and the art deco coffee table. I suggested we graciously leave the rest of his shit for his snob of an older brother, since he would already have enough trouble coming to terms with the thought of living alone for the first time in his codependent life- let alone the burden of shopping for re-purposed furniture. If you haven't figured it out by now, yes...Voldemort's family was absolutely insufferable. 

We were shacked up before any one of his eight siblings had the chance to tell him he wasn't allowed to move in with his girlfriend of five minutes. After seven glorious months of shoving my picture perfect relationship down the throats of my Facebook following, life as I knew it came to a screeching halt. One minute I was trying to figure out if I should broadcast our plans of an all Motown wedding reception, and the next was spent crying on the phone begging my mother to buy me a new bed since he took ours with him when he decided to move out with 30 seconds notice.

It was a sunny morning, unusual to most mornings in the Pacific Northwest. I woke up and rolled over into the empty spot in the bed. Voldemort must have gotten up early to make me coffee. I sprung out of bed and saw him standing at the end of the hallway silently.

"Autumn, I need to speak with you." 

"Surely no matter is so pressing that it cannot wait until I've had my coffee, Voldemort."

"I'm leaving."

"OK. Will you pick me up some smokes on your way home?"

"I'm not coming back."


"That's all? You're not even going to say anything?"

"I can't make you love me, and I can't make you stay. So there is the door."

Every conversation I ever had with my mother had prepared me for this moment, and given me the strength to not break down and slit my wrists right in front of him. I was crushed but there was not a chance in hell that I would ever give him the satisfaction of knowing. Letting him think that I was a complete sociopath was a far better alternative. 

The second wave of suicidal thoughts came when I walked outside to smoke a cigarette and discovered that he had stayed up all night packing his shit. Twenty three perfectly packed and labeled boxes stood stacked before me. It was as though Voldemort had conjured his own species of UPS elves to silently haul away every last mug and coaster in our home and pack them while I slept soundly like a clueless infant. 

Flash forward three months: I am fully submersed in what I like to call "revenge hotness" when I run into Voldemort for the first time since he shattered my domesticated dream. He looks at me with those dreamy "I'm a fucking idiot" eyes and I know he instantly hates himself for leaving me. We start taking shots of tequila and I immediately tell him about the three rebounds I have had in a valiant effort to forget him. We end up drunkenly stumbling to his shithole apartment and he confesses that the only reason he left was because his whore of a mother gave him an ultimatum. "Autumn, or your family. The choice is yours!" I imagine that after I made him bail me out of jail for getting caught with thirteen pounds of marijuana on my cross country road trip, his family was the obvious choice. This is assuming you are a spineless pussy living in a world where your mother has any say whatsoever in who you stick your dick into.

I throw away every last scrap of self respect and forgive him instantly. He starts to kiss me and in a moment I am naked on our old bed. He tells me to grab a condom and I comply. As I reach for the drawer I catch a glimpse of the trash can located directly next to the bedside table. It would more appropriately be called "cum dumpster" as it was nothing more than a plastic grocery bag full of used rubbers from whatever stupid skank he was fucking previous to my arrival. I took the liberty of relieving myself of my lunch all over his bed before locking myself in his bathroom for four and a half hours. 

When I emerged from his bathroom I calmly walked back into his bedroom where he struggled to drunkenly mumble "I'm sorry, please...Autumn...don't..." I walked over to his closet and ripped his favorite t-shirt off the hanger. I paired it with a pair of very luxurious A.D.I.D.A.S sweatpants, which I happened to know were among his most prized possessions. I put them both on, and with as much dignity as I could muster I said "I'm not coming back." I promised myself that as soon as I figured out how I was getting home my next order of business would be to ruthlessly cut the sleeves off that t-shirt so that he would never ever be able to enjoy it, ever again. 

Today Voldemort resides presumably on the west side of town.  He has somehow managed to find himself living in constant fear of the doll from Trilogy of Terror 2, who also happens to look strikingly similar to his current girlfriend. Same boring job, same bitch mother.


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