We asked for your most shocking tales from summer employment, and boy did you all deliver. While there were plenty of stories that were amazing (and sad and gross and scary), there was only one that was good enough to be the winner.

But before we get to that, let's talk about some of the lessons I learned reading all these stories: kids are annoying, food service is disgusting, and people, as a whole, are generally awful. Actually, I knew that already, but you all have certainly ruined any remaining fondness I had for humanity.

Before we get to the big winner, here are some of the honorable mentions. The authors of these sad sagas get a big fat "thank you," the admiration of their peers, and a gold star (if they didn't have one already). The titles are mine, but the stories are all theirs. Enjoy.

But there could only be one that was the real worst story, and this one has it all: an awful kid, even worse parents, a vicious employer, and some real life consequences. Sorry it's a bit of a downer, but not everything about this season can be sunshine and bikinis. Here is ItsCurtainsForYou's dramatic story Blame It on the Nanny:

When I was 19, I took a job as a live-out nanny for the summer. The cast of characters is as follows:

ExecutiveDad: He was in his late 50s. Worked in the city. Made serious cash. Divorced from first wife. Stuck with BimboMom.
BimboMom: She was ExecutiveDad's midlife affair. However when she got pregnant with her SecurityKid to keep ExecutiveDad, she forced his hand into a divorce. I'm not being judgemental. She told me this because she was proud of it.
SecurityKid: 6 years old. Boy. Needed professional help.

BimboMom hired me right off the bat. She recently realized that her 6 year old required a lot of attention from her and was getting in the way of her social calendar. Again, this was exactly what she told me in the interview. I was hired on the spot because no one else answered the ad in the paper.

My first couple of interactions with the kid made me realize that he was never properly socialized. He was 6 and functioned like a 2 or 3 year old. At first, I wasn't sure if it was a disability, but I then realized that his parents just ignored him to the point that he was basically a feral child. His speech was stunted because no one talked to him or read to him. Three word sentences at most. He didn't know how to wipe his own ass. He still wore pull-ups. He grunted at other children. He played with baby toys.

I started taking him to play groups at the library almost everyday and after a few missteps with the other kids, he started coming out of his shell. Over the course of a few months, his speech improved and he hit his delayed developmental milestones. However, he would cry when I'd leave at 5pm. Intensely. He's wail and throw himself to the ground and grab my ankles and tell me not to leave. BimboMom tried to put on a show by saying "Oh, baby, it's ok. Mommy is here now!" But that only made him cry harder. I tried chalking it up to a bad case of separation anxiety, but it wasn't sitting right with me.

In the middle of August, I had to start preparing this little guy for my leaving, so I start to talk about what it will be like when I don't come over everyday. I've never in my life seen a meltdown of this proportion. When I finally get him to calm down, the kid tells me that mommy doesn't give him food when he's bad and that he has to sleep in his closet without clothes. And some other stuff that was 100% abuse. Okey-dokey. That was an immediate call to Protective Services.

A couple of hours later, a Protective Services worker comes in and finds evidence of abuse when talking to the little guy. They decided remove him from the house. Which means no job for me, but I'm not sad if it means my little guy gets the fuck out of that house. BimboMom/FUCKINGBITCHFACEABUSERMOM comes home after a day at the spa (no joke) to me, the worker and a cop. When she finds out what happened, she fuckin' hopped across the table and tries to tackle me. Luckily enough, she missed and basically belly-flopped onto the tile floor in the kitchen. The cop had to hold her back. Holding her back didn't stop her from spitting on my face though. That was lovely. As I was leaving, she screamed "You fucking little bitch. What will people think??" Yeah, her reputation in the neighbourhood was her top priority.

I never got my final pay. And for a year afterward, she left escalating threatening messages on my cell saying that she knew where I lived and she was gonna get me. (I moved though, so... good luck.) The police were nice enough to make her stop that and I changed my number. I still worry about the poor kid.

Congrats to the winner, email us to redeem your prize. Well, that will make your summer of ditch digging seem a little bit less awful, now won't it.

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