Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127201 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
I realize it’s unlikely, but a girl can dream, right?
Finding my phone shoved between the couch cushions next to the soggy banana peel I lost on Tuesday, I scoop it up and immediately swipe my thumb across the screen, desperate to find Caesar’s text. Only when I find a flood of notifications from The Vag Destroyer, and absolutely nothing from Caesar, I crumble to the sticky floorboards, wishing like fuck that I hadn’t spilled a whole glass of juice down here.
What the hell is wrong with me? Surely this is rock bottom because there’s no way it could possibly get worse than this.
Giving in to the torment, I open the notifications from The Vag Destroyer one by one. It had gotten better earlier in the week, and I can only assume that had everything to do with Caesar, but now the asshole has come back with a vengeance.
My video and still shots have been posted hundreds of times across multiple accounts on different platforms, each with vile comments about me being a skank whore bitch, needing to be taught a lesson, even if it means slamming me down and taking it from me while I scream for it to stop.
It’s disgusting, and with every new post I read, my patience dissipates until there’s nothing left, and despite knowing that I should ignore it and leave it for Caesar to deal with, I take matters into my own hands. Besides, if Caesar needs me to go cold turkey and move on with my life, then relying on him to solve all of my online issues needs to stop.
He’s more than helped enough as it is. Whatever cybersecurity he put in place last week has been working wonders. Mostly. Every time that video is uploaded, it’s generally removed, just poof, disappears out of thin air, but not before it gets a chance to rack up thousands of views first. It’s humiliating.
Finding the main account for The Vag Destroyer, I open a new message and finally say everything I’ve been needing to say to this little snake.
Tilly: Your tribute page to my pussy is getting embarrassing. You’re posting about me like it’s a full-time job. I hope the benefits include therapy because you clearly need it, you crazed psychopath. If I wanted a pussy fan club, I would have at least found someone who’s not gagging with desperation. Touch some fucking grass, asshole. You wanted attention? Well, congratulations. You finally got it. You’re a virgin, aren’t you? Because anybody who’d actually experienced what it was like to be inside a woman wouldn’t embarrass themselves online the way you do. You’re pathetic, posting about me the way you do and threatening to rape me. Get a fucking life. You wouldn’t last five seconds in a room with me. You’re not scary, you’re just sad. A lonely, sad, virgin screaming for attention. You’ve never been the big man in a room. You’re not the hero, you’re just a cautionary tale, doomed to spend the rest of your life using your mom’s backne cream to jerk off to pictures of your aunt Gertrude on the internet. You’re not cool. You’re not funny. You’re just pathetic.
My thumbs hurt by the time I get through it and hit send, not giving a single shit about the consequences. I’ve said what I had to say, and while I’m more than aware that this will probably provoke him and escalate his bullshit, I just can’t seem to care. At least I feel better for the time being, and that’s all that matters. For now.
Satisfied that I’ve well and truly dealt with that issue, I toss my phone back to the couch before letting myself fall straight after it, kicking my feet up as though I haven’t got a care in the world in my four-day-old filth.
All thoughts of The Vag Destroyer fall from my mind, and just as I switch back to feeling sorry for myself—beep.
Fuck.
My eyes widen, and I dive for my phone once again, suddenly not feeling quite so brave. It’s one thing to put the asshole in his place, but I hadn’t expected him to respond, let alone quite so quickly. I figured it would have taken him at least six business days to read through the essay I just sent.
Grabbing my phone with shaky hands, I pick it up and let out a heavy sigh, relief pounding through my veins as I find nothing but a new text from my grandmother.
G’ma: Wait until you get home. You’re going to tie me up like a rotisserie chicken, you bad, bad boy.
WHAT IN THE EVER-LOVING FUCK?
Even my grandmother is getting screwed while I’m stuck on the couch getting screwed over.
Tilly: Seriously, Grandma? You really need to check who you’re sending these messages to. I’d hate to think what kind of chicken porn you’ve been sending to your accountant by accident.