She said, “Stop acting like we’re married. You don’t get a say in where I go or who I’m with.” Everyone laughed. I just smiled and stayed quiet. But when she came back from her weekend away, her tea didn’t work. And the neighbor told her exactly why. My girlfriend Jessica and I have a fundamental disagreement about the nature of reality.

 I believe that if you live in someone’s house, eat their food, and use their Wi-Fi, you are in a partnership. Jessica believes she’s a celestial body and I am a small insignificant planet caught in her gravitational pull. We’ve been together for 2 years and for the last 6 months she’s been living in my house.

 My name is on the mortgage, my name is on the bills and my name is on the little plaque by the door that says the Wilsons, which she bought without asking me and now seems wildly optimistic. I’m a pretty easygoing guy. I like my quiet life. I work from home as a graphic designer. I have a couple of good friends. And my idea of a wild Friday night is trying a new brand of frozen pizza. Jessica is not like that.

Her life is a performance and her audience is her three best friends, a cackling Greek chorus I privately refer to as the harpies. Their names are Tiffany, Brittany, and whatever the third one’s name is. Let’s call her Chardonnay. The issue at hand came up last weekend. I was making dinner and Jessica waltzed into the kitchen, phone pressed to her ear, already dressed to go out.

 She was in the middle of a loud one-sided conversation with the harpies. “Oh my god, yes, I am so in,” she said into the phone. “A weekend away is exactly what I need.” “No, he’s not coming. Don’t be ridiculous.” She hung up and looked at me, beaming. “Good news. The girls and I are going to the lake for the weekend. Leaving tomorrow.” This was the first I was hearing of it.

Oh, okay. I said, stirring the pasta sauce. Sounds fun. Which lake are you all heading to? It was a simple logistical question, a question a normal person in a normal relationship might ask. Jessica, however, looked at me as if I had just asked her to explain quantum physics in ancient Greek. She let out a short, sharp laugh and turned to her friend Tiffany, who had just walked in the door.

 “Can you believe him?” Jessica said, rolling her eyes. He wants to know where I’m going. Tiffany scoffed, looking me up and down like I was a piece of furniture she was considering throwing out. Jessica then turned back to me, put her hands on her hips, and delivered the line that would echo through the halls of history, or at least through my immediate future.

 Stop acting like we’re married. You don’t get a say in where I go or who I’m with. The harpies, who had all assembled in my kitchen by this point, burst into laughter. It was a symphony of derision. They genuinely thought this was was the peak of comedy. A man in his own home being told he has no right to ask a simple question about his live and girlfriend’s plans. Hilarious.

 I just stood there holding a wooden spoon with pasta sauce dripping onto the floor. And I didn’t get mad. I didn’t argue. A strange zen-like calm washed over me. The part of my brain that was trying to make this relationship work just packed its tiny bags, put on a tiny hat, and quietly left the building.

 I looked at her with a smug, smiling face, and I just smiled back. A big, friendly, completely empty smile. “You know what?” I said, my voice full of cheerful agreement. “You are 100% correct. My mistake.” They all laughed again, thinking I was just backing down. Jessica gave me a condescending little pat on the cheek and then they all swept out of the house off to some pre-W weekend away cocktail hour.

 I stood in the kitchen for a long moment, the silence broken only by the bubbling of the pasta sauce. Okay, I said to myself, a new much more interesting plan is beginning to form. Not married, no say. Got it. The weekend was going to be fun after all, just not for her. Update one. The moment Jessica’s car, presumably packed with five different types of glitter and a case of rosé, disappeared down the street on Friday afternoon, I sprang into action.

 My first move wasn’t packing or cleaning. It was a mission of strategic importance. I walked next door to Mrs. Gable’s house. Mrs. Gable is an 80-year-old widow with a sweet smile, a prize-winning rose garden, and a surveillance network that would make the CIA jealous. Nothing happens on our street without her knowing about it.

 I brought her a slice of the lemon cake she likes and sat with her on her porch. “Mrs. Gable,” I said after we had discussed the weather and the moral failings of the neighborhood squirrels. “I have a bit of a situation and I need your help. It involves a small bit of theater.” Her eyes lit up.

 The woman loves drama more than she loves her roses. I explained what had happened. I told her Jessica’s exact words. Stop acting like we’re married. I didn’t have to embellish. The unvarnished truth was damning enough. By the time I finished,Mrs. Gable was patting my hand with a look of righteous fury on her face. That shameless little hussy, she declared.

Don’t you worry, Tom. You leave it to me. What’s my line? I gave her a simple script. When Jessica returned and inevitably found herself locked out, she was to act confused and deliver a few key pieces of information. Mrs. Swool Gable took to the task with the enthusiasm of a seasoned Broadway actress preparing for opening night.

With my accomplice secured, I returned home to begin what I called Operation Bachelor Pad Resurrection. My house for the last 6 months had been a sea of beige pillows, pointless little bowls that held nothing. And art that looked like a printer had run out of ink halfway through the job. It was time to reclaim my territory.

 I didn’t just pack Jessica’s things. I curated them. I got a bunch of boxes and a thick black marker. The first box was labeled everyday clothes. The second, fancy clothes for fancy outings I wasn’t invited to. The third and my personal favorite, magic sparkly dresses that shed glitter on everything I own. Her 37 pairs of identical looking high heels went into a box marked a podiatrist’s nightmare.

 Her mountain of makeup and skincare products was packed into boxes labeled face paint and various goops. By Saturday morning, every trace of her physical existence was boxed up. I hired a couple of guys from a moving app and we loaded everything into a 10×5 ft storage unit. I paid for one month, a generous non-marital gesture, I thought.

With the house cleared of her belongings, the real fun began. I went on a shopping spree. I rolled up the beige rug and replaced it with an astroturf rug that looked like a football field. I sold her sterile white couch online and bought a gigantic black leather recliner sofa with approximately 16 cup holders.

 Her sad minimalist coffee table was replaced by a vintage pinball machine I found on Craigslist. It didn’t work, but it lit up, and that’s what mattered. The bedroom was next. I took down the weird macro thing she had hung over the bed and replaced it with a framed poster of a grizzly bear catching a salmon in its mouth. It felt right.

 My final and most brilliant move happened on Saturday afternoon. I drove to the local animal shelter just to look. An hour later, I came home with a 120lb St. Bernard puppy named Gus. Gus was not a small dog. He was a furry, drooling, lovable wrecking ball. He immediately claimed the new leather sofa as his own and fell asleep snoring like a lumberjack.

 The house was transformed. It was no longer a showroom for a sad beige life. It was a fortress of glorious, unapologetic bachelorhood. I spent the rest of the weekend playing fetch with Gus, drinking beer from the bottle in my own living room, and changing all the passwords. The new Wi-Fi network was named Get Your Own Wi-Fi, and the password was not married, lol.

 On Sunday evening, I sat on my 16 cup holder sofa with Gus’s giant head in my lap and waited. The storm was coming and for the first time in a long time, I felt completely, utterly prepared. Update two. Sunday night around 900 p.m., my video doorbell sent a notification to my phone. There she was. Jessica, looking tan from her weekend at the lake, strolled up to my front door, humming.

 The comedy began almost immediately. She tried her key. It slid into the lock but didn’t turn. The new deadbolt I’d installed that morning was doing its job. She jiggled it, a look of mild annoyance on her face. She tried it again. Then she let out an exasperated sigh and started banging on the door. From the couch, Gus lifted his massive head, let out a deep rumbling woof, and then went back to sleep.

 Jessica started calling my phone. I watched it vibrate on the pinball machine, took a calm sip of my beer, and hit decline. She called again, declined. This cycle repeated five times. The banging on the door got louder. Tom, open the door. What is wrong with you? My tea isn’t working. I remained silent.

 This was all part of the show. After another 5 minutes of increasingly frantic pounding, she seemed to give up. The doorbell camera showed her pacing on the porch, running her hands through her hair, and then right on Q, a porch light flickered on next door. “It was Mrs. Gable,” in her house coat, holding a watering can. “Showtime!” “Oh, Jessica, dear, is that you?” Mrs.

 Gable called out, her voice a perfect blend of surprise and neighborly concern. “Mrs. Gable, thank God,” Jessica said, rushing over to the edge of my porch. I can’t get in. My key isn’t working. Is Tom home? I can see the lights on. Oh, Tom’s home, Mrs. Gable said, nodding sagely. He’s had the most wonderful weekend. A real transformation.

Transformation? What are you talking about? Well, he told me the good news, Mrs. Gable said, leaning on her railing conspiratorally. He said, you two aren’t married. He said he doesn’t get a say in anything you do, so he decided to celebrate his newfound freedom. He redecorated the whole house. It’s a man’s home now, he said, very rugged.

Jessica just stared, her mouth hanging open. And the best part, Mrs. Gable continued, barely containing her glee. He got a dog. A great big beautiful boy named Gus. He said he wanted a companion who was loyal and didn’t talk back. Isn’t that sweet? The look on Jessica’s face was a masterpiece of disbelief and horror.

 She slowly turned and peered through my living room window. From my vantage point on the couch, I saw her face pressed against the glass. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene. The football field rug, the pinball machine, and the giant snoring St. Bernard occupying her spot on the new sofa. She let out a sound that was somewhere between a scream and a sob.

 She whipped out her phone and started texting me. My phone lit up with a novel’s worth of angry all caps messages. That’s when I decided to respond. I sent her a single simple text message. You said to stop acting like we’re married. You said I don’t get a say. I agree. This is my house and you don’t get a say in how I live in it.

 Since we’re not married, I’ve returned your non-marital property to a secure location. The address is 123 Storage Way, Unit 42. The code is 1 2 3 4. You have one month. Have a great life. I then blocked her number. The doorbell camera showed her reading the text. She looked at her phone. She looked at the window.

 She looked back at her phone. Then she let out a scream of pure unadulterated rage and threw her phone onto my lawn. It was a truly spectacular meltdown. She ranted and raved for another 10 minutes before Tiffany the harpy arrived to pick her up. The next day, the expected social media campaign began. vague posts about being betrayed, about men who can’t handle a strong, independent woman.

 It was pathetic. But I had one more card to play. Final update. The social media drama was predictable, but also incredibly boring. Jessica and the harpies posted stories with sad music, talking about the importance of knowing your worth and cutting out toxic energy. It was all so generic, it was almost funny.

 They were trying to paint me as a villain, but they were using a paint by numbers kit. I let them go on for about 2 days. Then I decided to provide some much-needed context. Didn’t engage with them directly. Instead, I made a post on my own private social media page, visible only to our mutual friends. It was a photo album.

 The first picture was of my living room from a month ago. The sad beige couch, the pointless bowls, the general aura of a dentist’s waiting room. The caption read, “Before.” The second picture was my living room now. The glorious leather recliner sofa, the football field rug, the glowing pinball machine, and Gus the St. Bernard sprawled out and looked majestic.

 The caption read, “After.” The final picture was a selfie of me and Gus on the couch. We both looked incredibly happy. The caption was simple. Decided to redecorate based on my new relationship status. It was brought to my attention that I’m not married and don’t get a say in things, so I’m embracing my freedom.

# The bachelor pad dog is my capital. No say no stay. The post was a nuclear bomb. The sheer unadulterated pettiness of it combined with the undeniable cuteness of Gus was a winning combination. My friends found it hilarious. The story with the proper context spread like wildfire. People who had initially offered sympathy to Jessica were now seeing the full picture.

 The narrative was no longer psycho boyfriend kicks girlfriend out. The girlfriend tells boyfriend their relationship is a joke and is shocked when he believes her. Jessica’s friends went silent. It’s hard to maintain a victim narrative when the villain is posting adorable pictures with his giant dog. The aftermath for Jessica was rough.

 She crashed with Tiffany, but that apparently lasted less than a week. I heard Tiffany got tired of Jessica complaining and not contributing to rent. She ended up having to move back in with her parents in a town 3 hours away. She did try to come after me illegally. I received a letter from a lawyer demanding access to the house to retrieve her wrongfully held property and demanding financial compensation for being made homeless.

 My lawyer responded with a copy of my mortgage statement, a copy of the lease, which only had my name on it, and a polite inquiry as to whether Jessica would be paying me back for the 6 months of rent, utilities, and food she had consumed while living in my home as a non-married person with no obligations. We never heard from her lawyer again.

The funniest part of this whole ordeal came about a month ago. I was at the dog park with Gus. He was happily chasing a tennis ball and I was talking to another dog owner. A woman approached me hesitantly. It was Chardonnay, the third harpy. She looked incredibly awkward. “Hey, Tom,” she said.

 “Look, I just wanted to say I’m sorry about that night at your house. We were out of line. I just shrugged.” Jessica said what she said. I just took her at her word. “Yeah, I know,” she said, shaking her head. “She’s a lot. She called me last week complaining that her parents are making her get a job. She said it was all your fault for ruining her life.

 She paused and then looked at Gus, who is now trying to fit three tennis balls in his mouth at once. Honestly, it looks like you’re doing just fine. And she was right. I am doing just fine. The house is no longer a beige prison. It’s my home. The pinball machine still doesn’t work, but it makes a great conversation piece.

 And Gus is the best roommate I’ve ever had. He’s loyal, he’s funny, and he never complains about my cooking. I learned a valuable lesson. Sometimes the best revenge isn’t a grand complicated scheme. It’s just listening to what people say and believing them. Jessica told me exactly who she was and what our relationship meant to her. I just decided to agree with her.

 She said, “I didn’t get a say. And now in her life, I truly don’t. And in my life, she doesn’t either.” And that combined with a giant drooling dog is a pretty happy ending.