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He threatened to punch me in my mouf. He griped and complained about every item I put in a box, even though everything in the house was actually mine. He came with a beat up truck and some rags he called clothes. He had provided nothing during our years together. He would whine, I have to live too. Like I cared anymore. I was so stressed by the time I was finished packing and started moving my things out of the apartment. The second day of packing happened to be my birthday. He woke me up that morning when he flipped on the overhead light in my bedroom (yes, by then we had separate bedrooms) and stood at the foot of my bed, and screamed at me in a horrible voice, Happy fucking birthday, you mother fucking bitch. Yeah, he was a real sweet heart. When I was finished loading up all my boxes, I made one final trip upstairs to get my dog and my purse and then I was out of there. I found him on the balcony with big old crocodile tears running down his face, and he begged me to stay.