God hates me because it rained today — just as I was leaving my top-floor corner office with a view. I stepped outside at 6:30 p.m., and as if on cue, the skies parted like the legs of whatever whore my ex-boyfriend is fucking these days, showering me with resentment and indignation. Fuck you, rain. Fuck you the maximum amount!

Whenever it rains, I can usually expect a text message from Stephen. The rain turns him on, or so he texts. "You know the rain makes me horny. I want your tight hole." Um, okay. That is just plain gross. I don't need to read a text message like that when I'm in the middle of shopping for ground beef at Safeway. "Who just texted you?" my roommate will invariably ask, noticing my widening eyes gawking at my cell phone. Oh, no one. Just Stephen.

I call him Stephen because, well, that's the name he gave me, although my friends say he is a male escort, so who knows what his real name is. But what kind of male escort would go out of his way to have sex with me, for free? And what kind of male escort would have a penis the size of a baby carrot? Sorry, that was mean. But, come on, it was small. Own it.

Stephen is a body builder. Did I mention that yet? That's right — a body builder. He'd flex while fucking me. I'm not even kidding. While on his bed and my back, I took a break from wondering when I'd get a chance to smoke my next cigarette to look up at him and see that he was actually flexing. I told myself then and there that I would never have sex with him again. I broke that covenant only twice. Sue me.

Deep down, I like Stephen, but if his salacious text messages are any indication, he wants me only for sex. I don't play that game. Besides, he is apparently married to a woman in Philly, and given his rumored extracurricular activities as a male escort, this is one body builder who I don't need flexing his muscle inside of me.

By the way, Stephen, if you read this, disregard everything I just wrote and TEXT ME AS SOON AS GOD DAMN FUCKING POSSIBLE. It's gonna be, um, pretty rainy tomorrow.

The story of how Stephen and I met is actually pretty ridiculous, so if you want me to write about it, let me know and I'll blog that shit.

UPDATE: Yes, I know that my layout is all fucked up in Internets Explorer. That is what happens when you get drunk and start fucking around with HTML. If anyone knows CSS and can help me make sure that the left part of my blog stays at the TOP where it belongs, please e-mail me. Thanks!