I recently learned about an odd but popular museum.
Instead of highlighting art or history, this museum provides visitors with an endless display of heartbreak remnants. For example, an anonymous jilted woman donated the breast implants that her ex talked her into getting when their relationship was a happy place to be. Another person donated a stuffed Peter Pan doll with a few unmistakable voodoo-doll-inspired pin pricks.
That’s right, curious black-hearted people pay nearly 20 bucks each to stroll through this depressing collection of tear-stained love letters, ripped bridal apparel and other trinkets of love gone bad. One lady actually managed to smash all of her beautiful wedding gown into a pickle jar.
Of course I was reminded of my disastrous history with romance. Several friends of mine have also been through some whopper nightmares. It didn’t take long at all for me to decide that we could likely spice up that museum’s collection. Some dark humor and a gigantic dose of that good old-fashioned spitefulness would definitely do the trick.
I would love to see a couple of pairs of pink-streaked underwear, a memory provided by a friend who dyed every pair of her husband’s unsexy whitie tighties a lovely shade of pink. Another friend filled her vain spouse’s shampoo bottle with Nair. She could provide the museum with a wad of lost tresses and that infamous bottle, emptied by revenge.
I can give up the sugar bowl that I accidentally on purpose added salt to, which made one of my exes think he just dunked a pretzel in his coffee. Every morning when he asked me what in the world was wrong with the coffee, I provided him with a perfectly blank face and absolutely no confession of guilt.
When another unnamed husband continuously made my life miserable, I took only one of his favorite shoes – I believe it was the left one – and stuck it under my car seat. Initially I intended to only hide it for a few days. When he was close to a meltdown because he wore them every single day, I would miraculously find the dumb shoe and return it to him.
That plan flew from the windows of my kind heart when the butt with feet did something hateful and hurtful to me.
Well, I will not go into what he did, but I promise that he deserved exactly what he got.
Anyway, the next time I went to Walmart that left shoe went into the trash can. Yes it sure did. I even had a big fat smile on my face as I plunked it in the trash and waved goodbye.
The big jerk spent the rest of the marriage whining like a brat and searching high and low for the silly shoe. A couple of times I even helped him look for the dumb thing, just to avoid being accused of taking it.
Was it mean on my part to take the shoe?
Sure it was.
But believe me, throwing the shoe away was a better choice than what I actually wanted to do with it. Yes if I had a way to chase it down, I would send that shoe to the owner of the museum for the heartbroken.
It is just a tiny glimpse into the hateful world of one too many arguments and not enough kisses and slow dances.
Instead of highlighting art or history, this museum provides visitors with an endless display of heartbreak remnants. For example, an anonymous jilted woman donated the breast implants that her ex talked her into getting when their relationship was a happy place to be. Another person donated a stuffed Peter Pan doll with a few unmistakable voodoo-doll-inspired pin pricks.
That’s right, curious black-hearted people pay nearly 20 bucks each to stroll through this depressing collection of tear-stained love letters, ripped bridal apparel and other trinkets of love gone bad. One lady actually managed to smash all of her beautiful wedding gown into a pickle jar.
Of course I was reminded of my disastrous history with romance. Several friends of mine have also been through some whopper nightmares. It didn’t take long at all for me to decide that we could likely spice up that museum’s collection. Some dark humor and a gigantic dose of that good old-fashioned spitefulness would definitely do the trick.
I would love to see a couple of pairs of pink-streaked underwear, a memory provided by a friend who dyed every pair of her husband’s unsexy whitie tighties a lovely shade of pink. Another friend filled her vain spouse’s shampoo bottle with Nair. She could provide the museum with a wad of lost tresses and that infamous bottle, emptied by revenge.
I can give up the sugar bowl that I accidentally on purpose added salt to, which made one of my exes think he just dunked a pretzel in his coffee. Every morning when he asked me what in the world was wrong with the coffee, I provided him with a perfectly blank face and absolutely no confession of guilt.
When another unnamed husband continuously made my life miserable, I took only one of his favorite shoes – I believe it was the left one – and stuck it under my car seat. Initially I intended to only hide it for a few days. When he was close to a meltdown because he wore them every single day, I would miraculously find the dumb shoe and return it to him.
That plan flew from the windows of my kind heart when the butt with feet did something hateful and hurtful to me.
Well, I will not go into what he did, but I promise that he deserved exactly what he got.
Anyway, the next time I went to Walmart that left shoe went into the trash can. Yes it sure did. I even had a big fat smile on my face as I plunked it in the trash and waved goodbye.
The big jerk spent the rest of the marriage whining like a brat and searching high and low for the silly shoe. A couple of times I even helped him look for the dumb thing, just to avoid being accused of taking it.
Was it mean on my part to take the shoe?
Sure it was.
But believe me, throwing the shoe away was a better choice than what I actually wanted to do with it. Yes if I had a way to chase it down, I would send that shoe to the owner of the museum for the heartbroken.
It is just a tiny glimpse into the hateful world of one too many arguments and not enough kisses and slow dances.
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