Let Me Say This First…
If you came here expecting part two of that juicy mango scene, pump your brakes.
Yes, I skipped straight to the “booty” in the last post. I needed y’all to wake up.
But let me be real…
That wasn’t the beginning.
That was the boiling point.
The part where the levees broke and my good sense floated out to sea with my last f*ck.
This?
This is the mess that came before the mango.
The unraveling.
The emotional scam.
The part where I almost married a man with commitment issues, community d*ck, and a phone full of “cousins” who don’t look related.
The fool—aka the cheating fiancé—started it with a question I now consider a red flag in a tuxedo:
“So… what do you bring to the table?”
Chile. That damn table.
He asked it on our third date. Repeated it during fights. Whispered it after sex like a bedtime prayer.
And I—dumb, hopeful, and tired—kept answering.
Until eventually, I stopped answering…
and just became the damn table.
Why I Said Yes (Even When I Knew Better)
I knew it wasn’t going to work.
I was engaged to a man with erectile dysfunction, an aversion to honesty, and the audacity to ask me to dim my light just because his light couldn’t keep up.
But he had the 20% Aries never gave me…
Stability.
Conversation.
Post-it notes that said “You’ve got this, baby” in his sleepy handwriting.
I didn’t say yes because it was right.
I said yes because I was tired.
Tired of being the “almost.”
Tired of sharing history with people who had no intention of creating a future.
They say, “You always know.”
And I did.
Just not loud enough to stop myself.
His favorite word?
“We.”
“We should meal prep.”
“We should budget better.”
“We probably shouldn’t invite Aries to the wedding.”
But “we” was just me—
Changing. Shrinking. Apologizing for taking up space.
And when I got quiet about it?
He filled the silence with lies.
Seven Days Before the Wedding: The Slip-Up
I was full-blown bridal beast mode.
Underboobs on ice, guest list in hand, candles labeled “wifey energy” burning in the background.
He claimed he was headed to the gym.
Left his phone on the couch.
And listen… may the Lord forgive me,
but I looked.
“Jimmy—Tire Guy” wasn’t offering a rotation.
She was texting about “stretching again” and missing “our little appointments.”
I didn’t cry.
Didn’t scream.
When he got home, I handed his phone back with a pink Post-It that read:
“Stretch this out. I’m done.”
The Aftermath: From White Dress to White Sand
He begged.
Swore it was just texts.
Claimed it meant nothing.
But when you’ve spent years being a good woman… loyal, forgiving, ride-or-die, you eventually earn the right to walk away without explaining a damn thing.
I wore white…
To the airport.
And I took the honeymoon.
Barbados, Baby!
The Suite. The Mango. The Man.
He was still there, Leo.
The reservations manager from my first trip.
The one who upgraded my booking when I still had stars in my eyes… and a fiancé who couldn’t even upgrade his stroke game.
This time? I showed up alone.
And Leo? He clocked that ring was gone.
“That suite deserves someone who knows how to enjoy it,” he said.
And listen—I did.
Loudly. Unapologetically. On company towels.
Not proud. Not ashamed.
Yup—I did that!
The suite was perfect.
The mango was ripe.
And so were Leo’s intentions when he fed it to me with his fingers like he knew my ancestors were watching.
No closure. No complications.
Just one beautifully inappropriate moment that said:
“Your girl still got it.”
Don’t judge me.
Judge your ex.
Corrine’s Confession
Let me say this again for the folks in the back:
That damn table made me crazy.
I spent years bringing everything, loyalty, laughter, trauma-healed leftovers, to a relationship that treated me like a TV tray.
So the next man who asks me what I bring?
I bring exit strategies, damn it!
And I leave before dessert.
Because if you’re still dragging that dusty-ass metaphor into 2025, your love language is probably expired, and your emotional credit score is trash.
I’m Not the Table. I’m the Whole Occasion.
If we can’t build a new table together… one with soft chairs, mutual joy, and space for flaws… then baby, you can eat alone.
I’m done potlucking my worth.
And I won’t be sitting at home either.
I just booked a trip to Tulum.
A honeymoon for the honeymoon.
No regrets. No reruns. No replays.
Let’s Talk
Ever been the one who walked away and didn’t look back?
Did your table collapse under the weight of somebody else’s ego?
Drop it in the comments.
Let’s unpack the mess with cocktails and confessions.