There is a distinct possibility that I won't have to go to another session of Divorce Court on Monday.
Since I let my lawyer know that there is already a provision in the Order For Protection for STBX to get his personal affects, the fact that he is using that as the last "straw" in the divorce is nonsense.
Just set up a time and bring a uniformed police officer with you and you can look for your stuff.
As a matter of fact, you can look REALLY HARD for your stuff.
And then you can realize that it doesn't exist anymore.
I find it mind blowing that, had he actually read the Order For Protection, he could have gotten his stuff five months ago. In the two or three days before I got the OFP, he called and said "I need to come over and get my stuff. You probably don't want to be there when I do."
Oh yeah, just let me step out of the house while you rummage around for any incriminating evidence or kiddie porn or whatever else you don't want me to find.
But when I got the OFP, I had the choice to say that he could never come back so long as the OFP was in play, or else he could come back at a prearranged time with a uniformed police officer. I actually vacillated on this point for awhile, standing there at the courthouse administrators window. I didn't want him to come back but I also didn't want to deal with his shit. Hmmmm. OK, let him come back and get it.
But he didn't. At first, I cleared him out of my bedroom and our living room. Any family photo with him in it went into our fire pit. It gave a lovely glow.
We then pulled apart our computer desk and got rid of anything that had to do with him. We threw it all in a box downstairs.
Then we cleaned downstairs.
The last to go? The initial box with his shit in it. The one that was waiting around all this time but was never claimed.
All I can say is that instead of coming here for his shit, perhaps he should visit Goodwill or CHUM.
It sincerely amazes me that after all he has done to us, he would actually think we have some sort of pile of his shit laying around. "Please, visit our home. That large stack in the corner? That is our shrine to a pedophile. What? You don't have one at your house?"
There are no clothes here. There are no photos. There are no gadgets or bobbles or wobbles or woodgets.
There are no pedos in Whoville.
You obviously still don't understand that once you stick your willy where it doesn't belong, you are escorted to the city limits and your shit is stacked in a pile and set on fire. All the little whos hold hands and we sing a little who song.
Get over it.