The Ex moved out today. Of the seven years, only the last five have been sheer torment. Like the complete moron that he is, he's only managed to move two floors down, so I'll have to go about pretending that he's dead and I'm just ignoring his ghost on the staircase. I was furious about that. Now I'm just thrilled he's gone. And for good this time. I won't forget again how he utterly let me down. Or that he's just a dumb-ass South Buffalo hick who had horrible taste in food, TV and movies and never met a book he wanted to open.
Typically, The Hellcat is taking his sweet time getting the rest of his crap out. I guess he's busy doing that no job sleeping thing he has perfected. He has until midnight Teusday. After which I start piling it up outside the apartment door. After which I'll feel like I've taken a giant shit.
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