Rings

When Emily told me about this blog, I was like "I can have nice things! I can't think of a single story where I..." and then it all came crashing down around me, my pleasant fiction. But now that that's done, I can share with you the reason I can't have nice rings.

The first and main evidence comes in the form of an engagement ring. On the heels of cheating on my boyfriend with a girl he was actually in love with at something called a plastic party, I got immediately engaged to said boyfriend, at which point he went right out and purchased what I considered at the time a Really Expensive Ring. It had a platinum band and one single, simple emerald-cut diamond. Back then I was way more into the idea of pretending I was stable than I was into righteous indignation about where diamonds come from.

Anyways I had not had this thing a month before I was putting together a new desk - one of those massive, black and light-wood-laminate monstrosities that was so popular in 1999. I was lowering one giant, heavy piece of fiberboard onto another giant, heavy piece of fiberboard and managed to crush this ring into a shape not meant for fingers. Platinum is hard and brittle, guys. We had to blah blah get it repaired and endure the whispered mockings of everyone who could tell that this was a portent about our relationship (which was everyone who had ever met us) and ultimately I gave it back under stormy circumstances, but that was a big clue right there that I can't have nice things. If that had been the time of abundant cheap digital cameras, I am sure I would have photographic evidence.

I do have photographic evidence of the ring I superglued to my hand last year, though. It was my current beau's dead grandmother's ring, and now it's enclosed in white crustiness.