Well, it finally happened. They got me.

I was minding my own business, giving advice to some hapless Romeo outside the video arcade, when the mall rent-a-cop took my elbow and said, “Excuse me, miss, but you’ll have to come with me.”

After leading me through the maze that is the path to the mall security office, he sat me down in the most uncomfortable plastic chair he could find. Suddenly, for the first time in many years, I was terrified.
“This isn’t one of those survey things where I have to watch some really awful commercials, is it?! Don’t make me do it! Please, I’ll do anything, I’ll-- “

“No, miss,” he answered, “You’re being sent… Down. Crimes against Cupid.”

“Oh, okay. As long as it’s not a survey.”

So now here I sit in the fiery depths of Heck, trying to consume the last of my post-Valentine’s-Day dollar chocolate before it melts while contemplating why I was sent here. In short, I’ve been a bad, bad girl.

If I had to pinpoint the exact moment that began my downward spiral into brazen hussitude, I’d have to take you back to the Summer of ’98, when I attended a camp for gifted youngsters in south Georgia.

It was at this nerd festival that I met Graham, a writing major with a lopsided smile who somehow convinced me to “go out” with him even though, being campers, we weren’t allowed to “go” anywhere except the campus shop and the weekly concerts given by the faculty and fellow students.

I had never been pursued by many boys, so the fact that this (relatively cute) one who had read lots of books wanted to make out with me on the soccer field after lights-out made me, of course, fall in love with him instantly. We shared one set of headphones while we listened to Bob Dylan, we walked to lunch together holding hands, and we referred to each other with saccharine nicknames. So what if he was named after a snack cracker and had a Napoleon complex? It was three weeks of total bliss. Until the night when, coming out of a class, I rounded the building to see Graham across the street kissing someone who looked remarkably like my “friend” Rachel.

Some people would have been heartbroken. Some people would have spent the rest of the summer moping and crying into their pillows. Some people would have vowed never to love again. I am not “Some People.” I spent the next few weeks trying to find out exactly how many boys I could kiss in one summer*.

And so Miss Biscuit was born.

You can’t blame me, really. I’m just a product of my environment. The victimized become the victimizers, etc. etc. blah, blah, blah. Actually, I just learned not to take romantic entanglements very seriously. I like to get what I want, when I want it, and after that I don’t really care what happens to it.

In order to get what I want, I’ve mastered the fine art of seduction, which is just another word for “make him think it was his idea.” You’d be surprised at how easy that is. I’ve been called a lot of names, but mostly just by people who wish they’d done it first; I never broke anything that wasn’t already cracked; and I’ve certainly never had any unwilling victims.

Anyway, the warden won’t let me get back to the surface until I’ve listed off my sins, so let’s get this over with. Here’s the tally.

Boyfriends Stolen: 4
Homes wrecked: 1
Promises Broken: 403
Times Cheated: 7
Proposals rejected: 3
Numbers torn up: 57
Breakups initiated: 12
Breakups provoked: 2
Orgasms faked: 9
One-night stands: 6
“Let’s Be Friends”: 18
Hearts crushed**: …I lost count here.

So, I’m here for my supposed crimes against that chubby, naked emissary of “love.” I’m told I have to sit and reflect on the many hearts and headboards I’ve broken and, I suppose, repent and decide to change my ways. Here’s the problem with the whole “go to your room and think about what you’ve done” tactic: It presumes regret. I’ve never done anything I wouldn’t do twice, and I got away with it, too. What’s a few hours in a sauna supposed to teach me?

* The answer is 42.
** Also mangled, flattened, trampled, shredded, minced, chopped, or skewered.