I confronted Steven last night. I drank a bottle of wine and told him I know. He says I can’t know because there’s nothing to know. I wanted to believe him. I wanted him to tell me it’s a mistake. That the PI screwed up. But I couldn’t. I told him not to bullshit me, that I know. I have proof. And if he really wanted, I could show it all to him. I thought he was going to get on his knees and say he was sorry. Beg me, tell me it was a huge mistake and it’ll never happen again. But he didn’t kneel. He just stood there and finally started mumbling that it didn’t mean anything, that things have been weird with us lately. Weird with us? Wo-aw—I am not part of this equation, that’s for sure! That pissed me off even more. I didn’t even give him the time to finish. I told him to get the hell out. That he’d regret every minute he spent with her.

Now, I don’t know where he is. He took a knapsack of essentials. His new Calvin Klein underwear he “bought recently” – he’s never bought his own underwear before. Bastard. I was so blind. He’s probably holed up at that slut’s apartment. In all of her 700 square feet in a fifth floor walk-up. I hope her air-conditioning is still broken. Just the two of them.

You see, everyone, my husband of seven years has been putting his small, little tool into another woman’s toolbox. Not mine. My best friend’s, to be precise. Not only have they been trading reproductive juices, they’ve been doing it right under my nose. Can you say: adultery! And let’s just say that adultery is highly incriminating in divorce court.

They think they can just walk away from this. Their games have been played for the last month. Months? My games are just starting. They don’t know what kind of shit they’ve just stepped in. Flies everywhere. I have friends in high and low places. It’s time to call in some favors. It’s time to draw up my own games. It’s time for them to feel what I’m feeling. Everyone reading this blog will have front row seats.