Damn, I Wish You Were My Lover

Okay, so y’all remember the coworker of mine who frequently and almost compulsively comes to work late every day? She’s the one who stood me up the other weekend when we made plans to have dinner together and catch a movie. And she’s the one who recently got engaged to an extraordinarily cute, baby-faced and hunky Marine. Well today when she showed up for work, a reasonable 10-minutes late, she was sans engagement ring.

At the end of the week two weeks ago, she was having a personal crisis as her fiance, who recently found out that he’s a babydaddy with his ex-girlfriend, decided that he wanted to be a part of his baby’s life.

When I last spoke with my coworker, she was unsure how she felt about the whole situation. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life having to deal with his ex, who is a paranoid, unhinged, raging biatch. While he was in Iraq, she was sleeping around so much that the paternity of the baby was in such question that taking the case to Maury Povich was briefly discussed.

I’m not sure how it all went down last week while we were on break from work, but, from the bits of overheard conversation I amassed, this is what happened.

Leaving work early last week because of her personal crisis, she went home and at some point in the following 24-hours had a sit-down conversation with her fiance about the babydaddy situation, which ultimately ended with her calling off the wedding. He left the house in a huff, drove a massive amount of time to his ex-girlfriend’s house in Maryland, where he spent the weekend. By the time my coworker cooled off and attempted to contact the Marine to talk things over, he had blocked her number, deleted her and her friend from among his MySpace friends and, in a brutal slap in the face, replaced pictures of him and her together on his MySpace profile with pictures of him, his ex-girlfriend and their baby. Suh-lap.

By the time I gathered this last bit of the story, I had lost all interest in the situation. I can’t offer my shoulder to cry on when he’s already taken up the familiar bosom of the female devil incarnate. And I think somewhere in the past few years, I’ve given up fantasizing about any guy who’s even remotely interested in women. John, Vince: who needs another repeat of that?