If We Were Speaking in Hypotheticals...

...I would reaaaallly have no sisterly advice to give you on this one, darling. I tried everything short of being a raving homicidal pyschotic, and look where that got me. Heh.

But since I know the Fuckwit In Question, I'd say ignoring him is the first step, followed by a restraining order and a baseball bat or two weilded by some hefty Texans I know.

Violence would be the last resort. And I could threaten him with "action" from Our Least Favorite Uncle. That always seemed to make him pee his pants.

Seeing how you and Shithead (sorry...S.O.) have, erm, worked things out (subtext for you readers out there: fucked things out), if I should ever go insane and want to reconnect with Fuckwit I'll know who to go to for advice. There's a more likely chance of winning the lottery and being struck by lightening on the same day, though. (The reconnect aspect, not the advice, that is.)

You're right on the reconnect with Fuckwit aspect. Though now that I think about it, I sort of knew Fuckwit better than you knew Shithead.

And I am soooo in trouble, sis. ShitheadSO called mid-afternoon and sang a little song about how he was missing me right now.

AND I THOUGHT IT WAS CUTE

Am. So. Fucked.

And not in the normal nookie sense of the word.

...I sort of knew Fuckwit better than you knew Shithead.

An unfortunate thing, in both regards. It would be nice to actually talk to the man that screws your brains out, if only for the stories about squirrel noises and wet spots. ;)

AND I THOUGHT IT WAS CUTE

Yup. You're fucked. Will you post the song at least, so I can snigger and laugh?

I'm really not one to talk, though. I'm on cloud nine after just having lunch with you-know-who. (Actual food, not a nooner, perv.) Smack me.