Bye-Bye, Jerkface.

One night shortly after I left Jerkface for good, I was sitting alone in my dark little apartment in the fog belt of San Francisco, and I actually missed him. Why? Who the heck knows, although I suppose it was a bit of Stockholm Syndrome. I was appalled and bewildered because I had fought so hard to free myself from the hell of our marriage and had been thoroughly enjoying coming home after work and oh, just listening to music (shocking) or eating whatever I damn well wanted (gasp!) instead of hearing his voice, smooth with faux concern, slowly and systematically destroy me and what I knew to be real.

There was no way I was going to allow myself to go back to him in a dangerous moment of weakness.

So I made a Jerkface candy jar. What’s that, you ask? The idea was that any time I dared think of going…

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