This story is from when my parents were first married. One night, my father had a craving for pork chops and asked my mother if she wanted him to make one for her, too. My mother declined, telling him that she disliked pork chops.

A while later, my mother was figuring out what she wanted to make for her own dinner when my father sat down at their table with a juicy, delicious pork chop cooked to perfection.

Mom: “What is that?!”

Dad: “A pork chop?”

Mom: “That’s not a pork chop! Pork chops look like shoe leather!”

And that was how my mother learned that the way her mother made pork chops — cooking them until they were essentially jerky — was neither the standard nor the ideal.

My husband was not well educated growing up; his “homeschooling” was essentially whatever he learned by watching his older siblings and online videos. A lot of his knowledge — particularly reading — is self-taught.

We recently bought a new water heater and our first water softener. The water softener was no problem, but the heater was a beast. I asked if [Husband] needed help removing the old one from the basement. He insisted he was fine because his brother was coming over. It was an eighty-gallon heater with years of calcium built up inside, so it was not light. I left the boys to their dirty work and started on dinner.

About an hour later, [Brother] brought [Husband] in, one arm draped over his shoulders.

Me: “What happened?!”

Husband: “I was trying to lift the old heater and something in my back popped.”

Me: “Okay, let’s lay you down on the couch and I’ll get an ice pack. [Brother], start Googling pulled muscles versus herniated discs. [Husband], do you think you need to go to the hospital?”

Husband: “No, I’ll just die here. Don’t let the cats eat me.”

Me: “And waste all this free food? That’s pretty selfish.”

Brother: *Ignoring the cat talk* “I think he pulled a muscle.”

Me: “Okay, rest for a while. Here’s the ice pack.”

[Husband] spent the night on the couch, unable to get up. The next morning, I helped him hobble to the bathroom.

Me: “Is it better or worse? Or just the same?”

Husband: “I don’t know… It hurts! I’m an imbecile!”

Me: *Laughing* “Well, yeah, a little bit. Why did you try to lift it alone?”

Husband: “I didn’t think it was that heavy once it was emptied.”

Me: “Ah. You want me to draw you a bath? You can use the hot water from the fancy new heater!”

Husband: “Yes.”

Me: “Okay.”

Husband: “Wait.”

Me: “What?”

Husband: “What’s the word for someone who gets hurt and can’t walk?”

Me: “Um… an invalid?”

Husband: “What word did I use before?”

Me: *Trying not to laugh* “‘Imbecile’.”

Husband: “What is that?”

Me: “Well… you weren’t wrong when you called yourself an imbecile. It’s basically… a stupid person. Like someone who tries to lift an eighty-gallon water heater alone.”

Husband: “Fair enough. I’ll take it.”

He did recover with a few days of rest and pain meds. And now he has two new words in his vocabulary!

My ex-girlfriend and I were together for six years. Near the end of our relationship, the atmosphere was miles from what it normally was. Her idea of a happy home, which I paid for for the two of us, basically became her and her friends every weekend on the couch drinking wine until they all fell asleep or were too drunk to get home.

I worked at this time in a s***ty restaurant in town, earning just about minimum wage. It was back-breaking work — long hours, thankless jobs, unpredictable shift changes because the boss thought it was a fantastic idea to lease us to a pub on the opposite end of the road, etc.

One night, I returned home from a grueling thirteen-hour shift at almost 1:00 am. The bus I was supposed to get didn’t turn up, so I had to wait even longer for the next. Knowing I had to face another shift the next morning, my only real desire right then was to sleep. The second I entered, however, I was greeted by my girlfriend, her friends, and an opened bottle of wine.

Me: “Hey, I need to be up fairly early tomorrow, so can we wrap this up, please?”

Girlfriend: “Hey, darling. Of course, we’ll be done soon.”

“Soon” pretty much meant not at all soon from my experiences.

Me: “Well, you’re not working tomorrow, are you? I am, so I just want to—”

I stopped talking when I notice that she and her friends were just fixing a vacant stare at me. I realized none of what I was saying was getting through, so I just dropped my stuff and headed into the bedroom. Being that my girlfriend is Swedish, she scoffed and said, “Han är på dåligt humör igen,” which means, “He’s in a bad mood again,” accompanied by her and her friends laughing at my expense. Sure, because wanting to sleep in the bed I paid for so I can pay for your endless nights with the ladies is such a tall ask.

I lay in bed, unable to sleep because of the noise they were kicking up. After about twenty minutes, I got up, got dressed, grabbed my keys, and phoned a friend to crash at his.

Thankfully, he was okay with it, but evidently, my girlfriend was not.

Girlfriend: “Where are you going?”

Me: “Somewhere where you are not. When I come back, I want you out of my f****** house.”

I wasn’t kidding around this time. Of course, she tried to make amends there and then and practically threw her friends out, but it was too little too late. I stayed at my friend’s house that night, quit my job the following morning, and returned to find my now ex-girlfriend gone.

That month was Hell, but I was able to find a much better, well-paying job soon after, and I met a colleague who would later become my beloved wife, who respects and treats me like a king.

I am a gamer and a firm believer that something not being new doesn’t mean it’s bad. I bought a secondhand PlayStation 3 several years after the PS4 came out due to a lack of backwards-compatibility, I bought a WiiU the day the Switch came out because I hadn’t gotten a WiiU yet, and I still regularly play games for the PSP, Game Boy Advance, and GameCube. I have not gone a year without playing a game for each of these consoles for at least a week. Combine that with the fact that I DO enjoy new games, and… well, I now have a closet dedicated to storing my consoles when they’re not in use, so the TV stand and my bedside table don’t get crowded.

I say “now” because I didn’t at the time of this story; I had most of my home consoles sitting next to each other below the TV, switching out cords whenever I wanted to play something on a different system than the last, and all of my handhelds were scattered atop or in the drawer of my bedside table. When I decided to move in with my girlfriend, I had a giant storage bin dedicated to storing my consoles and another one that was holding all my games.

This game-hoarding (and I use the term facetiously) got me out of a bad relationship much sooner than I probably would have otherwise.

After we moved in together, [Girlfriend] started giving me “advice” (read: telling me and not letting me say no) about how I should dress and what I should or should not eat, that I should get more exercise and play fewer games, etcetera. This SHOULD have been a red flag, but in past-me’s defense, I am the exact opposite of fashion-minded, and I know my physique is not great; I didn’t put up much of a fight against her decisions. I got a LOT of compliments at work about how my wardrobe had stopped featuring blacks and greys, which probably gave me the idea that her advice was sound.

That is until I return home one day and find all my gaming stuff missing — my home consoles, my handhelds, all my games, and even a pair of headphones with an attached mic.

[Girlfriend] gets home shortly after I’m done turning the house upside-down looking for everything.

Girlfriend: “Hey, [My Name]! You’re back already?”

I’m somewhere between terrified and furious and really hoping this is a misunderstanding of some sort.

Me: “[Girlfriend]. Where. Are. My. Games?”

Girlfriend: “Don’t you think it’s about time you stopped playing video games? I donated them to [Secondhand Gaming Store]. Come on, why don’t we do something together?”

“Donated”?! So, not only did she get rid of all my stuff without permission, but she didn’t even get any money from it?

I don’t even respond to her questions. I walk out the door, ignore her asking me what I’m doing, get in my car, and drive to [Secondhand Gaming Store]. I go there regularly to check out their selection of no-longer-sold-new, and there’s rarely anyone else there; fortuitously, there is no one there today, either. Even more fortuitously, the clerk behind the counter is the guy who has processed 75% of my transactions at this place. He recognizes me when I get there.

Clerk: “Hey, [My Name], come here!”

Me: “Not now, [Clerk], I need to know—”

Clerk: “No, seriously, dude, come back here.”

My anger is starting to lose out to my terror at this point, but [Clerk] asking me to come behind the counter catches me by surprise. I come around the counter… and a familiar pair of storage bins are sitting there, open to reveal all my consoles sitting there in what looks like good condition.

Me: “Thank every f****** god in the Source, you still have them.”

Clerk: “‘Still have them’? Dude, no way was I going to let anything happen to them.”

I tell him what I found when I got home, and he tells me his side of the story.

[Girlfriend] parked her car in the nearest space to the door, carried my bins inside one at a time, and pushed the stack toward the counter. She asked [Clerk] what he could give her for my console collection and my giant pile of games. A red flag went off in [Clerk]’s head: who abruptly decides to sell five different home consoles AND four different handhelds all at once? Especially a PS4, in a year when the PS5 hasn’t even been announced. Combine that with [Clerk] knowing which consoles I buy games for, and he had his suspicions.

The standard procedure when you trade in a game or console to a competent secondhand dealer is that the dealer has to make sure the thing works. This gave [Clerk] a good excuse to see whether this stuff belonged to who he thought it did or this was some freak coincidence with someone off their rocker.

Since turning on a handheld is a faster job than plugging in a home console, he grabbed my Switch and hit the power button, and the screen lit up. When he got to the home screen, he found my account, the username of which uses a variation of my real name. He opened up the eShop and turned it toward [Girlfriend].

Clerk: “Excuse me, miss, could you do me a favour and log into this for me?”

Girlfriend: “Why? Can’t you just get rid of it before you sell it? He’s not going to use it anymore, anyway.”

Yes, she made it clear that these were not her things that she was trying to pawn off to him. [Clerk] refused to buy anything unless she brought the owner in with her, to which [Girlfriend] angrily demanded that he stop complaining and just take the goods from her. Eventually, [Girlfriend] got fed up with the argument.

Girlfriend: “Fine! Take them for free, then! I’m just trying to get rid of a bunch of stuff he doesn’t use! If you’re not gonna pay me for his stuff, that’s your fault!”

Yes, [Clerk] stressed, she did in fact say, “…pay me for his stuff…”

I thank [Clerk] and the Twelve about a hundred times each while I check my stuff for visible damage and find none. [Clerk] helps me carry my stuff back out to my car, and I call a friend, who agrees to let me crash at his place for a while. I take the gaming stuff to him first and then drive back to [Girlfriend]’s place and give her seven hells while I collect everything I own that will fit in my car.

Girlfriend: “Get back in here! Get rid of all that gaming junk, get back here, and apologize!”

Me: “I’ve got a better idea. How about you stop trying to decide what I’m allowed to enjoy and how I spend my free time, and I don’t treat you like a selfish b**** who cares about no one but herself?”

I would like to say that [Girlfriend] screamed at me because she’s human and a loud wordless vocalization by a human is usually described as a scream. But [Girlfriend] has a fairly low-pitched voice, and it genuinely sounded more like a roar. I turned around, got into my car, and drove away.

[Clerk], thank you again; I owe you big time. And [Girlfriend], f*** you with a greatsword.

My husband and I usually spend Thanksgiving with a close friend instead of going to our families’ homes. This year, our friend’s fifteen-year-old son invited his girlfriend, also fifteen. She is about as mentally stable and secure as most fifteen-year-old girls. She thinks [Son] should only do things they can do together, he should always hold her hand, and he should absolutely never talk to any other women.

As the only woman at the meal that [Son] is not related to, I am obviously a threat and she treats me as such. I was seventeen when [Son] was born and babysat him a lot growing up, so we are pretty close, but I’ve never looked at him as a prospective boyfriend.

I stopped drinking several months ago because of a complication with one of my medications, so I have been trying out different non-alcoholic substitutions. I bring a four-pack of this substitution to the gathering and put it in the garage. [Son] and [Girlfriend] are sitting out there by themselves. [Girlfriend] sees me and starts crawling in [Son]’s lap and trying to kiss his neck.

Me: “Hi there.”

Girlfriend: “Bye there.”

She waves me off.

Me: “What’s going on?”

She sits back in her seat and glares at me while [Son] gives me a fist bump and laughs.

When the meal is ready, we are all seated at the table. [Girlfriend] strolls in last, drinking one of my non-alcoholic beers and looking right at me.

Friend: “[My Name]…?

Me: “Yeah, that’s mine. What are you doing, [Girlfriend]?”

Girlfriend: “It’s not real beer, so it’s not illegal.”

Friend: “It’s also not polite to help yourself to things that aren’t yours.”

[Girlfriend] shrugs and keeps drinking.

Son: “Sorry, [My Name]. I’ll give you some cash for it.”

Girlfriend: “Why?”

Son: “Because you just stole that!”

Me: “Let’s just eat.”

Girlfriend: “It’s basically soda, anyway.”

[Girlfriend] chugs the rest of the drink. I don’t know if you know what happens when you down a carbonated beverage in a few seconds, but [Girlfriend] learns. She burps so loud, I think her throat is sore. [Son] laughs out loud and [Girlfriend] glares at me.

Throughout the meal, [Girlfriend] continues intercepting dishes as I ask for them, talking over me, and just being a classic mean girl.

When dessert comes, I bring out my pies and set one at each end of the table. When they come to her, [Girlfriend] picks one up and shouts. The glass plate lands on the floor upside-down.

Girlfriend: *With mock sadness* “Oh, no! It was too hot.”

The pies have been cooling for several hours by this point and are not hot at all. I’ve had enough, but I’m not going to yell.

Me: “That’s why grownups touch hot plates and children wait their turn. Go get—”

Girlfriend: “I’m not a child!”

Me: “Go get some towels to clean up.”

Girlfriend: “Kiss my a**, you ugly whore.”

Friend: “Hey! Absolutely not! You can go call your mom and have her pick you up.”

Girlfriend: “F*** you, too! This b**** is—”

Son: “Shut up!”

Girlfriend: “What?”

Son: “Go home.”

[Girlfriend] leaves the table and is picked up a few minutes later. Her mother is apologetic. It sounds like [Girlfriend] is a terror at home, too. As they leave, [Girlfriend] looks out the car window and waves, tears streaming down her face. [Son] turns away and walks back inside. We can hear (Girlfriend) screaming down the block.

Son: “When are girls less crazy?”

Me: “Ohhhh… probably a ten-year minimum.”

Son: “Oh, my God!”