Hilary Winston - My Boyfriend Wrote a Book About Me: And Other Stories I Shouldnt Share with Acquaintances, Coworkers, Taxi drivers, Assistants, Job Interviewers, Bikini Waxers, and Ex/Current/Future Boyfriends but

MY BOYFRIEND
WROTE A BOOK
ABOUT ME

AND OTHER STORIES I SHOULDNT SHARE WITH ACQUAINTANCES,
COWORKERS, TAXI DRIVERS, ASSISTANTS, JOB INTERVIEWERS,
BIKINI WAXERS, AND EX/CURRENT/FUTURE BOYFRIENDS BUT HAVE

Hilary Winston

An Imprint of Sterling Publishing
387 Park Avenue South
New York, NY 10016

STERLING and the distinctive Sterling logo are registered trademarks of
Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

2011 by Hilary Winston

All rights reserved

Sterling ISBN 978-1-4027-7979-4

Sterling eBook ISBN: 978-1-4027-8882-6

For information about custom editions, special sales, premium and
corporate purchases, please contact Sterling Special Sales
Department at 800-805-5489 or specialsales@sterlingpublishing.com.

This book is dedicated to my favorite cats (you know who
you are) and anyone who has ever had their heart broken.

And dreamed of getting just the tiniest slice of revenge.

And didnt do it because they were worried theyd look crazy.

Im taking this bullet for you.

Youre welcome.

CONTENTS

Preface

The story of how I found out that my former boyfriend wrote a book about me and
what I decided to do about it, other than writing bad reviews on Amazon.com.

Introducing all the jerks, dicks, and gay guys
I dated before my first real relationship.

Part 3: Bathing in Tandem AKA
My First Adult Relationship

Detailed accounts of my first and last major relationship
and its downfall, before he wrote a book about me.

This section will tell the stories from my acting out phase.
This will be the section that will most embarrass my family
members and possibly even my friends and neighbors.

Part 5: Terrible, Horrible, No Good,
Very Bad Things, and One Crazy-ass Mailman

The truth hurts and these essays are achingly true. They include my
mothers breast cancer, me putting my cat into a diabetic coma on my
birthday (sorry, Emmett), and other things that attract male companions.

Part 6: Where Do Broken Vaginas Go?
Do They Find Their Way Home?

Every good book or fight has a wrap up. This chapter is about
how I mended my heart and broke my vagina, literally.

A NOTE TO THE READER

T his book is painfully true. The stories are told the way I remember them happening and reflect my personal opinion on people, events, and ultimately the truth. Some details have been changed to protect the innocent/guilty. But the only person I really intended to make fun of at all in this book is myself and maybe my diabetic cat. If you are one of the guys I dated and are written about in here, Im sorry. But we had fun... yes? Maybe. And cmon, you probably broke up with me.

A little background before we go any further together, I am a lady.

I was born in Los Angeles, California, to a government lawyer and a swimwear designer. I have a therapist sister, Christine, who is four years older and according to my mother, much, much smarter than me. She took an IQ test in elementary school that revealed she was a genius. I was given no such test but I guess my parents figured the chances of birthing two geniuses were slim. Thats how I became the dumber sister. We moved to Corpus Christi, Texas, in 1980 so my Dad could work in the family auto parts business and I could develop a slight Texan accent.

After paying four years tuition at The George Washington University (go Colonials), my parents encouraged/begged/blackmailed me to become a lawyer and make all their dreams come true. This didnt come out of nowhere, I had encouraged it. I went to college hoping to become the first female Republican President, even skipped my junior year of high school to get a jump on the other aspiring lady elephants. Upon arriving in Washington, D.C., I joined the Collegiate Conservatives. After an awkward BBQ with a bunch of pale Republicans in khaki shorts quoting Rush Limbaugh, I almost immediately lost faith in my conservative roots, and went 180 degrees in the other direction. I ended up an intern in the West Wing of the White House for Bill Clinton, just in time for that job description to become a national punch line.

To add to my further moral decline, I joined our college comedy group, Recess. We performed improv and sketch like it was our job and in writing those sketches my love for comedy was born. Its like a ghost. Once you see it, you cant deny its existence. Once I found comedy, I couldnt deny it was what I wanted to do. By the time I graduated college with a degree in International Affairs, and affairs with guys who didnt really like me back, Id swung completely to the left and was working as an assistant at NPR. My parents might refer to this time as the beginning of the end. Its also when I got cats.

When I told my parents I wanted to be a writer, they said no. They were my primary investors after all. I dont think they wanted to squash my dreams. I just dont think they pictured their little pumpkin writing fart and poo jokes for a living. At least I was a lawyer on my high school Mock Trial team that won state. I did make the Dallas newspaper, so theyve got that.

I know my career choice disappointed my parents even though for all intents and purposes, Ive made it. Ive been writing television sitcoms professionally (kind of an oxymoron) for almost eight years. I know my parents are proud of me although sometimes they deflect having to admit this by saying, You must be so proud of yourself. Point being, they have come to appreciate my job on some level but Im about to disappoint them again by doing something very un-Southern: air my dirty laundry. Im thirty-four years old and I have stories I feel the need to tell, including one about the death of a relationship and its resurrection in the New Fiction section at Barnes & Noble. In fact, that story is the inspiration for telling them all.

My stories arent Lifetime Movie Network material. I was not kidnapped and fed ground meat as a child. I did not overcome a terrible illness and go on to find a cure for Restless Leg Syndrome in a dwindling rainforest. I did not adopt a deaf child (though I almost adopted a blind kitten... almost, too needy). And I did not donate my eggs or re-virginize myself in front of Congress.

But things happen. Life happens. Over the course of a few years, I fell in love. I fell out of love. My sex robot obsessed significant other decided to cryogenically freeze himself. My mom got cancer and bragged about the weight she lost. My cat got diabetes. I gave an accidental hand job. I broke my vagina, literally. I bought a house. I had a questionable poo. I got all my privates hair waxed off. I ate Tylenol PM and Lean Cuisine for dinner. And just when I thought my Job-like phase was coming to an end, my ex-boyfriend wrote a book about me.