The following is something I felt I had to write, because I'm still sad and pissed off about something.
On May 10, 2003, I was in the middle of living with my soon-to-be-wife at her parent's house for a few weeks while our townhome was being built. It was Mother's Day. The sun was out. Every window in their crib was open. The fam was all downstairs preparing for a party that was set to start in a few hours, and I was just getting out of the shower.
I moistly sauntered in my towel manskirt into my makeshift bedroom, climbing over boxes and shit, towards my pile of clothes. I remember smelling some shorts and some armpits on some shirts, finding just the right mix of musk and fabric softener to adorn my body in when my phone rang.
It was one of my...