Her name was Maryanne. We met at an open mic night at a crappy bar where we both were playing. She was short, had dreads, and looked a bit like a troll-version of Tracy Chapman. She played a Beach Boys song and we bonded over our mutual love of said group. We would occasionally bump into each other at various dive bars and parties and became casual acquaintances. She had a sketchy look about her and would grit her teeth and make strange facial expressions as she spoke. Eventually she moved into an apartment building across the street from me with her girlfriend. I eventually found out that she was bisexual and a recovering crackhead, and was infamous for crashing parties uninvited, looking for crack. One day she showed up at my house when I wasn't home, visibly intoxicated, and asked my roommate for a pen and paper so she could leave me a "pen message". When I later read it, it was just scribbled gibberish. She then showed up at a mutual friend's place and started acting crazy. After refusing repeated requests to leave, my friend called the police, at which point she pulled out a large kitchen knife and cut the phone cord. My friend managed to escape with her in hot pursuit, and ran to the nearest phone booth and called the police. My friend managed to hold her off until the cops showed up, at which point she refused to drop the knife and was pepper-sprayed. This had no effect and the police were forced to tackle her into submission. I haven't seen her since and I have no idea where she is or what happened to her.

I met Andrew on my first day of university and we were great friends for seven years. He's a man of firm convictions and strong intellect, and we enjoyed arguing with each other about politics. One of the amazing things about Andrew is that he's only ever mad at one person at a time, but he focuses all his energy on that apathy until someone else makes him mad, then all is well. It's the key to the man, the fact that, once discovered, makes his foul moods bearable: Weather the storm, and he will one day again be your friend. Twice over the years I fell into his dog house, both times when I caught him lying about women he claimed to have been intimate with. Twice we buried the hatchet. Eight months ago Andrew got a real girlfriend, a true and nice and wonderful girl, and I was so happy for him. Then he told me I was too immature to meet her --that I could not be trusted and I would only embarrass him-- and I was devastated. Every one of our conversations after that became an argument, but he no longer respected my views or what I had to say. I kept waiting for his anger to move on to the next person, but it never did. He would go on and on about how I had no friends, when, in fact, he was the one who was drifting out of our social circle. One day, out of the blue, he sent me an e-mail that I couldn't finish reading. It was the ravings of a man insane. I wouldn't send a letter that brutal to anyone. I forwarded it to a couple of our mutual friends, just to show that I wasn't being overly sensitive when I said I'll never speak to him again. Turns out he had spent the last four days bad-mouthing me to my sister over facebook before he worked up the nerve to send his e-mail to me. I thought he'd be an uncle to my children. I thought we'd know each other when we became old and grey. I haven't forwarded that e-mail to his girlfriend. My friends tell me to. My sister tells me to. My mother tells me to. I won't. It's not the mature thing to do. That e-mail is the last words we will ever exchange, and they make him look like an animal. That should be enough for me, but instead it just makes me sad. Goodbye, Andrew.

My own personal experience with a fucktard is as follows:

My last husband, Mike. He lived in the house I owned for over a year while I supported him. I found out after the fact that on our wedding trip to Vegas he paid a dominatrix to tie him up and whip him while I was back at the hotel, wondering why in the hell my soon-to-be groom didn't want to spend any time with me. Seventeen days after the wedding, he left me and moved in with his ex-girlfriend. A few months after that he moved to Mississippi to be with the father who abandoned him as a young child. I used to blame the dad for abandoned him; now I understand completely. Losing him was the best thing that ever happened to me.

I knew this girl Kaylie in high school who showed me a picture of the girl she gave birth to WHEN SHE WAS 12. And since the father was only 11, his parents adopted the baby. Anyway, we were friends for awhile. Years later I was in college and looking for a roomate so I could afford to live off campus. Although she was not in college, she had been in touch with me and needed a roomate too. I soon found out she smoked 2 packs a day and had a lot of strange habits. The worst was her sex addiction. She had more than 30 sex partners in the 3 months we lived together. Yes! That included our apartment manager, the schizophrenic man downstairs who was on state disability funding, two brothers in the same night (aged 14 and 16), one of my professors, a few of my friends, and yes, my own boyfriend. All unprotected sex as she told these men she wasn't menstruating and therefore it meant she was unable to get pregnant.(!) Later, a lot of my 'friends' had complained to me that they got crab lice from her. Although I wasn't sleeping around, we lived in a small studio apartment, and I got crab lice too. Sometimes she would bring somebody in and have sex just a few feet away from where I was trying to sleep. She never did pay any rent, but I was just as happy to get the hell out of there and never look back. She wasn't even that pretty.