A few weekends ago, my girlfriends and I decided to have a drink night. For most girl crews, drink night usually starts out with a few friendly cocktails and pointless compliments on each other’s outfits (the question, “oh my god where did you get that?” is a surefire sign that you need a few more drinks in you to make the night more interesting). Soon enough those friendly cocktails ended up being more than a few harshly honest pitchers as we started to commence into the dirty ritual every woman has been guilty of enjoying: talking crap about other girls. From “she’s way too tubby to be wearing that,” to, “he’s way too hot to be doing her,” we ranted on and on as if we were Perez on The View. We were cruising No Mercy Street. Eventually we started to soften up as we got onto the subject of our good friend Jesse, who had broken up with her more-than-perfect boyfriend Jeremy. It had turned out that Mr. Perfect had been cheating on her for six months with his hometown friend.During a fifteen-hour train ride from Philadelphia to Orlando, Jeremy was taking a nap and Jesse decided to check her Facebook on his iPhone. Suddenly a text message reading, “I cannot wait for you to be inside me,” appeared from a mysterious contact labeled “K”. Still in denial, Jesse thought that maybe it was one of those inside lets-pretend-we’re-gay jokes he had with his buddies. But after fuddling around with the screen she finally got into his inbox and discovered multitudes of dirty messages from “K”. By the next train stop it had all come out. “K” was Kristina, an old fling from high school, whom Jeremy had been sleeping with for several months. His only explanation was that it was only sexual. Jesse made him get off at the next stop and find his own way to Florida. Then she gave him three days to move out of the apartment as soon as he returned to Philadelphia.
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