49 Wrinkles

    I’d imagine that, to my ex-girlfriend's friends and well-wishers, the tale I’m about to tell is a popular one, a piece of indisputable evidence that I am, was, and always will be a low-down nogoodnik, capable of both acts of woeful recklessness and unconscionable cruelty.
    Well to them, except for my ex’s friend Sophie, who I still think I have a shot at boning (fingers crossed!), I say suck on this! (I'm pointing to my groin.)
    The issue stems from my habit of unwittingly running over my ex’s cats with my car, which I seemed to do two or three times a week for the entirety of our ill-fated relationship.
    My ex would always feign surprise whenever I had run over one of the Wrinkles--all of her cats were named Wrinkles, Wrinkles 1, Wrinkles 2, Wrinkles 42, and so on--but really, I couldn’t help but think she was faking it a little bit. After all, It was nothing new after even our first week together. Picking her up for our first date, for example, I was pulling up to the curb and I heard a loud thud underneath my car. What was that thud?
    That’s right, a sleeping homeless man.
    But pulling away from her apartment, I heard another, more feline thud--one gets used to the thuds different animals make. Sure enough, I had killed Wrinkles the First before I ever even got to make a clumsy attempt at her bra strap.
    The second time it happened was later that week, when, despite my having killed her cat before the appetizers arrived on our first date, we went on our second date. This time, I was dropping her off. “Sorry about that. Lucky the little guy has nine lives, right?!” I said after the overrunning, elbowing her in the shoulder, bucking her up. “Wanna have some sex?”
    But she said no, and just stared at her cat with tears in her eyes, and I guessed my “nine lives” joke wasn’t quite as funny as I thought it was.
   
    All told, I ran over 49 Wrinkles in the time that my ex and I were together. I bear responsibility for all of them, and can tell you with some din of redemption in my voice that I only intentionally ran over one of these--it was Wrinkles 26, who made a habit of being cross and looking down his nose at me. (Who’s looking down at who now, Wrinkles 26?!)

    So what do I expect to come from this apology for running over cats, and in a few cases, kittens?
    Money? The Guinness World Record for running over a significant other’s pets? A harem comprised of the girls from The Secret Life of the American Teenager?

    All of these would be nice. But I guess most of all, I just want to clear my name, to let my ex-girlfriend know that I’ve changed, matured, and apologize for all of her cats that I’ve run over since our breakup (7). That, I guess, and the money thing.