well hello there, boys and girls

I have officially bored myself with my struggle to stay sober. Therefore, I will talk about all the grand mistakes I have made with the opposite sex. Well...not ALL of them...that would fill up 12 collections of encyclopedia BROtannica.
This still has a great deal to do with my lack of ability to stay dry, because most (if not all) of my run-ins with dudes I have been black-out (or wished to god I were black-out) drunk. As a disclaimer, I will now suggest to all the blips on my morality radar to stop reading immediately. For those of you with whom I still speak...congratulations, you're retarded.
While I am on the path to self-discovery-land, I figure I should find out why I am such a raging bitch. In order to do that I can't avoid the one thing that life seems to be centered around...and trust me, I dry heave a little when I admit this...love.
I was in love once. It feels like a decade ago...probably because it was. Ever since then I have never felt anything even remotely close to what I felt for him. This isn't because I was emotionally slam danced on, which I was, nor is it because he is my one-and-only and someday, 50 years down the line, we will run into each other in a Piggly Wiggly and hold each other in a silent, all knowing old people hug...it's because I was fucking 17 years old and had more hormonal charge than some poor kid who tried to OD on his moms birth control pills.
So I dated this fucktard for a good 3 years of my young life, and I fell out of love. That was the worst pain I had ever felt in my 20 years of life. I felt drained. I hated myself. I hated him. No, I hated myself. I took this poor guy, I built a life with him, and then I took it apart and left him with the rubble. Literally speaking, apparently when I go through bad break ups my coping mechanism is hidden somewhere inside my furniture...and the only way to get it out is by hurling everything liftable towards my most recent ex.
Don't feel too sorry for him, kids. I later found out he had cheated on me with a fat chick who looked like her face was feeling immense amounts of force from both above and below her face...like her nose had it's own gravitational pull that only effected her forehead and chin(s). That fat broad, who had the personality of a wet mop, was my best friend. Ouch. Why was she my best friend in the first place, one might ask? Well, obviously I am horrible judge of character.
I'd blame my binge drinking on this very event, but I was a well seasoned drinking champ well before I met bloke and bertha. Perhaps I was training for the drunk asshole Olympics, and I was going for the gold in the furniture throwing event. Regardless, that was the first time I learned I could walk away from anyone and be just fine.
With the amount of walking I have been doing ever since that day, you'd think I would have an ass that could make j.lo blush. Fortunately for the boners I've stepped on in the process, I don't. And if one of you numbskulls are reading this right now, I have something to say to you: I am not sorry.