I've never been great with making decisions. Not with family, not with friends, and definitely not with guys. To give you a little insight into some of my bad calls, let's start with the guys. I'm not, nor have I ever been, one of those girls who go into every relationship looking for Mr. Forever. I look for someone to have fun and hang out with, and who brings me food without me having to ask first. The problem is that I'm 5'4", blonde, and model-skinny. For most women, this is the dream, right? Wrong. This "dream" means that I'm constantly accused of being anorexic, the butt of every short joke out there, and guys only see one thing when they look at me. So all of my ex boyfriends were basically done with me when they realized that I am in a committed relationship with my V-card and not looking to break up with it anytime soon. The most recent exes, Scott and Chance, were the messiest. Scott was my best friend/on-off boyfriend for five years until I walked in on him going at it with some random girl from our school. Carter was a Marine who had just gotten back from a six-month deployment when he decided to throw away our year and a half relationship because I wouldn't drop my panties. Great choices, huh? Don't get me wrong; I'm no bible-thumping, hardcore abstinent southern baptist. I just haven't met the right one yet. My best friends Grace and Brooke are the same way. Anyways, back to my point. Bad decisions were apparently the theme of the night that I met Michael. It was January of my senior year of high school and Grace was spending the night as usual. We were playing around with the new filters on Snapchat when I got a message on the app from some guy named Michael Bradbury. Hey, it said. I had no idea who it was until our friend Matt called me. "He's like my brother", he said. "You can trust Michael." Even though Grace tried to warn me, I sent him a message back. Three simple letters. Hey. And that, ladies and gents, is where the madness began.
