Every Romantic Encounter You’ve Ever Had: Where Are They Now?


We’ve done plenty of shit in our mere 20-something years of life on this planet. And yeah, a lot of those things we did were terrible, horrible, no good, very bad decisions, either induced by alcohol or the fact that we’re all little shitheads. I like to call my bad decisions by name, but as to not cause conflict in my personal life, I’ll just publicly refer to them by their titles. Few things make you feel like a better person than when you look back and realize the size of the bullets you’ve dodged.

Your First Boyfriend
I’ve been in the game for almost 20 years. Back in my day, you didn’t fuck around when the boy with the Barney nap time pillow was single and ready to mingle. You jumped on that shit and dated him (recess-exclusive) from Kindergarten until the fourth grade. Sure, it was innocent, and 98 percent of the time, you both acted like the other didn’t exist–but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still have a special place in your heart.

Fast forward 20 years–you’re not really shocked to hear that David Wooderson is this guy’s hero. He keeps getting older and they keep staying the same age, which isn’t really rocket science, considering he’s trying to pick up 17-year-olds in the high school parking lot after Friday night football games. It’s all fun and games until somebody cries “statutory.” Everybody’s first boyfriend turns out to be deliriously creepy. It’s like the law of physics or something.

Your First Kiss
Sometimes you break out into a cold sweat at the mere thought of that disgustingly sloppy kiss. Then you realize you’re not entirely sure whether you’re thinking of that time your prepubescent lips made contact with someone who wasn’t your mom or your nana for the first time, or if it was that time sophomore year when your drunken lips landed on anything that could break your fall.

It’s present day, and you’ve learned this guy has apparently figured out how to use his lips, at least well enough to lure an unsuspecting woman to the place hopes and dreams go to die (see also: his pelvis). You don’t know this for a fact, but the herp on his lips and the kids on his hips are a pretty solid indicator.

The Guy You Lost Your Virginity To
This guy’s basement is riddled with remnants of your virginity by way of depressed looking couch cushions covered in semen and the parts of your dignity you lost before college. There is nothing quite as humbling as this pitstop down memory lane, although pictures of yourself before you began drinking your calories instead of eating them come in as a close second. Thoughts of your first equal opportunity exchange of bodily fluids haunt your dreams to this day, and they are a contributing factor to your much needed Tuesday therapy appointments with Tracy.

According to Facebook, he is now married to someone who can’t trust him enough to allow him his own, personal Facebook account–it’s evidenced by the ” ‘N’ Julie” attached to the end of his name. They have a baby, too, and coincidentally, her middle name is surprisingly similar to your first name. Even if you wanted to, you know better than to shoot the guy a cordial “How’s life?” Facebook message, as ” ‘N’ Julie” would be there to stare death into your soul faster than it took her to hop on that newly experienced dick. You’re welcome.

The One Who Got Away
This guy took an entire year of your life and basically all of your future years, too. You never really fought, and you had good times together, whether you were sober or vomiting all over the place because you tried to outdrink a 6 foot 5, 235-pound man. The sex was even good enough to make you forget your name for a minute or two. It just didn’t quite work out for some reason.

As it turns out, he met, dated, and married some girl at warp speed, which turns out to be about six months in normal people time. As amicably as you like to say it ended between the two of you, you’d still jump his bones the second he and his bride start throwing around the “D” word. Just holla atcha girl.

Your Recent Ex
You don’t even fucking care as long as he isn’t within 500 feet of you, per the restraining order your had placed on him as a subtle breakup. The last time you saw him, he was trying to do everything you ever asked him to do in your eight-month relationship as a means to win your cold, bitch heart back. You’ll never be able to listen to “Closing Time” again without hearing his shrill, midnight cries in the distance.

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My state gave you J. Law, Clooney, two-fifths of the Backstreet Boys, and multiple fifths of bourbon. I gave you a cover letter using Brian McKnight lyrics. Psuedo-adult by day; PGP, TFM, and TSM contributor by night. Please don't ask me to do math.

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