In college I had an on again off again boyfriend for about three years. It was the most emotionally turbulent relationship I’ve ever been in. We’d fight. We’d break up. We’d get back together. Then we’d do it all over again a month later.
Usually we’d fight about stupid crap like him wanting to go hunting and get drunk with his friends rather than spend time with me. Or we’d fight because I hated his meddlesome mother and the Oedipus complex that she had created for her son. We yelled, we screamed, we called each other names. It was awful.
After one such fight, break up, then reconciliation, my boyfriend gifted me with a teddy bear from Build-A-Bear that said “I love you baby” when you pressed the red heart on the bear’s chest. I’m guessing this bear was my boyfriend’s mother’s idea because he was far too selfish to think of something like that on his own. Regardless of the inspiration for the bear, it was a sweet gesture (read peace offering), and I promptly named the bear Scooter.
Fast forward a few months to the night of my 21st birthday. My boyfriend and I got into one of the worst fights of our relationship, but this time we weren’t fighting about hunting or his mother. Nope, we were fighting about his interactions with other girls.
Hell hath no fury like a drunk 21 year old girl finding out that her boyfriend had been frequenting strip clubs with his friends and lying to cover it up. To add insult to injury, just minutes before I found out this information, my boyfriend had been playing “boob basketball” by trying to throw skittles into my roommate’s low-cut shirt. My boyfriend and I exchanged some harsh words (in front of all my friends), then he grabbed his belongings and stormed out of the house.
I was upset to say the least, but I wasn’t going to let this fight ruin my 21st birthday. My friends and I downed a few shots, then decided to leave my house and head for the bars. When we walked outside, the front yard of the house was covered in white fluff. For a few seconds there, we thought that it had snowed. We determined that it wasn’t snow, but were baffled as to the white fluff’s origin. I shrugged it off and continued on to the bars. I was ready to celebrate.
So many bars. So many shots. I can’t really recall exactly how much alcohol I consumed that night, but it was a lot. At some point in the night, my boyfriend met back up with the group. I was still mad at him, but I decided that I would allow him to hold my purse and buy me drinks. At least he was good for that.
After a long night of dancing, pounding shots, and glaring at my boyfriend as he stood across the room sheepishly holding my purse, I decided that I was ready to go home. I rode with my boyfriend back to my house. I still wasn’t thrilled with him, but I had decided to let this one go so as to not initiate yet another break up.
As we pulled into the driveway of my house, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye in the backseat of my boyfriend’s car. I unbuckled my seat belt then turned to the backseat to investigate. It was Scooter, but something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. I scooped up Scooter into my arms, and he was lifeless, just a heap of shredded fur and eyeballs. No fluff. I looked at lifeless Scooter, then at the white fluff in my front yard, then back at poor Scooter again.
“Scooterrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” I yelled.
I panicked. I looked at my boyfriend. He panicked. Then I slapped my boyfriend across the cheek, dropped Scooter, and ran into the house sobbing hysterically, tripping in my high heels all the way and nearly falling into the bushes.
I refused to talk to my boyfriend the rest of the night or allow him into my house. Naturally, he went and spent the night with his brother who lived just a few miles away.
The next morning my boyfriend was waiting on my front porch desperately trying to apologize. I let him inside. He looked awful. Like really awful. I was no prize myself considering how hungover I was, but my boyfriend looked really awful.
“I couldn’t sleep. I was up all night trying to fix Scooter” he explained.
My boyfriend pulled Scooter out of a bag, only it wasn’t Scooter. It was a Frankenstein Scooter. Sure, the fluff had been stuffed back into him, but Scooter wasn’t his normal chipper self. His heart still worked, which was a relief, but his entire little teddy bear body was covered in stitching from head to paws.
“Happy birthday, baby” my boyfriend muttered.
Happy birthday to me, indeed.
xoxo Katie : )
Oops!...I Dated Again 