I Sent My Cheating Husband An Actual Pile Of Horse Poop In The Mail

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man looking down

It was sometime just before midnight in the middle of the week, when I took to Google to see if I could send a big chunk of s*** to my husband.

My husband and I, already separated since August and living in different countries, were no more.

Although it was a messy ending, due to both his laziness and lack of spine, I foolishly believed in the back of my head that we could be friends someday — that is, until I was pushed to go looking for some poop on the Internet.

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Truth be told, I don't usually send people poop when I'm pissed off. After I have my immediate breakdown — one in which many F-bombs and screams are released into the void of the night sky — I plot their demise, as most normal people do, then take a sleeping pill and go to bed.

But in this case, it was different. 

After analyzing what was said, what wasn't said, plus some brewing up of suspicions on my part, my husband decided to come clean about a cold hard fact: He, a 48-year-old man, had cheated on me with a 20-year-old — a sprite young thing just two years older than his own daughter (not mine, a daughter from a previous marriage).

If that wasn't enough, they were "soulmates" (they both like The Beatles and have the same birthday) and she was moving in with him.

And just when I thought I couldn't take anymore, she, his 20-year-old "soulmate," sent me a poem — a poem she wrote about me. In her broken English, she scripted several stanzas depicting me, the horrible woman who was crushing her husband's soul, and she, the "little girl" who was in love with him and wanted to save him.

For all the gibberish it contained (and there was a lot), I was at least grateful to see that she could recognize that she's just a "little girl," which, to be honest, makes it even creepier.

It was one thing for him to break promises, to never live up to his potential, or never do all the things he promised to do (the major reason for our split), but once you threw in the rest of it in all its ridiculousness, I snapped.

I wasn't just a woman scorned and betrayed, but a woman chanting, "Revenge is a dish best served cold" in her sleep, while he and his 20-year-old child girlfriend firmly believed they had done nothing wrong.

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In their minds, if anyone was wrong, it was me. How dare I stand in the way of their soulmate-ness! I mean, how am I supposed to live with myself knowing I've caused these two so much pain.

And breathe. Before I took to Google, I briefly considered packing up my own s***. Yes, I know that puts me in the "crazy" category, but f*** it.

You get cheated on by your husband, then receive a poem from his 20-year-old girlfriend, and then we can talk. But I realized such a thing probably wouldn't make it through customs.

So, after a bit of research, I came across Shitexpress, a website that provided the exact service I needed. For less than $20, I could send a delightful care package of horse sh*t to anyone in the world.

It was an anonymous service, although something tells me that when he opens it, it won't be very anonymous.

As I stared at the website with a maniacal grin of the Joker across my face, I wish I could say I paused for just the briefest of seconds before placing my order, but I didn't. In my mind, horse poop pales in comparison to what these two clowns had done, so screw it.

I typed my credit card in, patted myself on the back, then cried, threw up, screamed, and cried some more for the next few days.

I also awaited notification of the s***'s arrival, but as I write this, it's yet to be delivered. Part of me hopes they'll be confused and maybe taste it, but that might just be wishful thinking on my part.

Was I immature to do such a thing? Probably. Did they deserve it? Absolutely.

While, yes, my husband deserves it most, any woman who basks in the glory of not just sleeping with a married man, but falling in love with him thinking she "won" some grand prize — plus, declaring him her soulmate, then sending her husband's wife a poem in which she's some sort of innocent victim of love — will certainly find herself on my (literal) s*** list.

But maybe I'm just "crazy," because what other label is there for a woman who takes a stand and screams out "enough is enough," while throwing s*** at people who wronged her? Oh, I know: Awesome.

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Amanda Chatel is a writer who divides her time between NYC and Paris. She's a regular contributor to Bustle and Glamour, with bylines at Harper's Bazaar, The Atlantic, Forbes, Livingly, Mic, The Bolde, Huffington Post, and others.