Fuck You.

Hopefully, for my own sanity’s sake, I’ll be completely over and done with these hate-filled, ridiculous blog posts some day.

But today is not one of those days.

For those that know me in real life, you are [probably] well aware that I put up with absolutely zero bullshit. Don’t even try – you will not succeed. I think that comes from all the years that I was a pushover to men. If someone liked me, paid me the slightest bit of attention, I was all mush and a fucking doormat. When my ex and I broke up, I sacked up [to use a masculine term] and started with a no-nonsense approach to men*.

When it comes to guys I encounter in my life now, do one thing wrong and you’re out. I don’t have time for your excuses, your bullshit, whatever it is. Just don’t even try to fuck with me. I’m not having it.

It’s just weird that, a year and a half after our break-up, my ex is still giving me bullshit. Sort of indirectly. But I’d really like him to disappear – poof – into the wind, never to be heard from again. Alas…this won’t happen**.

So, with no-bullshit attitude I have, even the smallest things just set me off. Hey, maybe it’s the hormones*** – but who really knows. Either way, he pissed me off tonight…and didn’t even have to try very hard.

I was reading the Facebook wall of a mutual friend of ours, and I saw the ex had recently posted something. But I couldn’t click on his name, and couldn’t see his picture – though I could still see his name and what he wrote. I know he had de-friended me back in the spring [which was really a blessing, actually], but this now meant he had blocked me. There is no way for me to search for him, message him, see our mutual friends – nothing. Not that I want to, but seriously – what was the point of him blocking me? Had I done anything wrong to him? Had I emailed or otherwise contacted him or his fiancee at any point since he told me he was engaged in January? No, I had not. I left him completely alone. HE is the one who wanted to be friends, and keep in touch, and all that bullshit. I have a feeling, though, that he got the hint that I didn’t feel the same say when he possibly read the Facebook event I made celebrating the year anniversary of me getting rid of “the douchebag toolbag ex who none of my friends and family liked anyway.” It was shortly after this event was published that I noticed we were no longer “friends.” 

Whatever. Just…fuck you, dude. FUCK YOU. I’m trying to move on with my life and not be so mad at the way you basically lead me on to think you really loved me, just to get me to move to Boston, pay half the bills, cook and clean, have sex once a week [at most - you know, whenever you wanted to], and betray me the way you did. And YOU have the gall to block ME! I’d block you back, but I don’t give a SHIT what you think about me. Hell, I’d let you see my whole fucking profile, just to make sure you know how much happier I am and how much better my life is without you.

But I’m pretty sure you already know.

One more thing: I pray to God that you won’t be moving to DC next year after you graduate, because that is my plan. If I see you around Capitol Hill, I may not be able to keep my right hook from connecting with your face. Just a heads up.

 

FOOTNOTES:
* And dating – which may be why I’m still single, almost a year and a half later. Regardless.

** …yet. He does have a serious blood disease where he basically has no immune system. So, should the apocalypse come, he’d be one of the first to die…ooh, is that too cruel?

*** I am about 5 days out from my period – and I do have a history of depression, which I believe exacerbates my PMS to a point just shy of homicidal rage towards men.

More Relics.

While searching for some coin wrappers in my everything-drawer, I found a card. It was from my ex from this past Valentine’s Day. Two emo-looking people cut-outs grace the front, along with the text “I got you babe.” Inside he wrote this:

Love,

Even though the crazy people on the front look nothing like us (with their black hair…and their drugs), they convey the message true.

I love you. You are a light in my life — one that I don’t want to go without. So, I write it and say it again: I love you! I love you.

Muah — [name]

My response upon reading the card this morning: “Hmmm.”

He wrote this a mere three weeks before we broke up — before I found his little email conversation with another woman [who has since become his girlfriend] saying, “I’m not sure if I’ve ever loved anyone besides my family. I don’t know, maybe I’m just skeptical,” before I begged him to reconsider our separation, to give it another chance, and responded to my tears, “No. It’s over.” Does anyone wonder why I felt so betrayed, so fooled? He just wrote me that card, professing his love — what changed so quickly?

Maybe nothing changed. Maybe it was all lies to begin with.

But, doesn’t matter now. The past is in the past. And my present is much happier. It’s just interesting how sometimes you find traces of a former life, and the emotions those relics stir.

Drunken Ramblings.

I heard the siren in the distance from the living room of my apartment, and also from the other end of the phone. I called Sunrise Chinese for sesame chicken and crab rangoons. Apparently the restaurant is closer than I imagined, if we are hearing the same emergency sounds. Sipping my third glass of wine, surrounded by jazz, the smell of summer rain and candlelight, I sat alone. Opening Microsoft Word, I thought, ‘If I’m going to make a baby, I better get to fucking.’ That’s an analogy, for sure [not mine, but I have stolen it] – the baby is a book. Or even in the more present tense, just a story. Time to get fuck—I mean, writing.

Sometimes taking stock of one’s life is crucial.

There’s a centerpiece of candles and rocks on a metal tray that adorns the middle of my bar table. I never allowed my ex to light the candles – I always wanted them to look pristine, untouched, perfect. Now, in my semi-drunken state, I want to burn those fuckers. Maybe for light, sure. Maybe for something else. Maybe just to burn something.

Guess I am over my anti-pyromaniac stage from the other day.

He messaged me last night. Don’t know why. I think he might want to be friends, although when we had lunch before he left for Arizona for the summer I informed him that I wasn’t really interested in being his friend, and was unsure if I’d ever see him again. “But we live in the same city,” he said. “Are you going to delete my number?” Trapped, I said no, although I secretly knew I would probably not answer if he called. That’s a big “if.” He barely paid attention to me when we lived together. What would make me believe he’d actually want to keep in touch? Well, besides the obvious – that’s he’s a fucking moron douchebag and obviously doesn’t know shit about shit.

This has gotten really random. Happens with wine in my bloodstream. And Chinese food. Sesame chicken = truth serum.

I have so much to write about. I see everything. My life is a collection of hilarious, heartbreaking, wonderful stories.

Maybe one day all these tiny pieces and particles of stories will form a big picture, like a jigsaw puzzle. I’ll just keep picking up the pieces I find every day, put them in my pocket, and try to make them fit.

I just hope at the end that the puzzle pieces come together and don’t look a mess, like some insane clown eating a puppy.

That was over the line.

Two Christmases of Board Games

I opened up Cranium tonight

and inside were the relics of our past and

of last Christmas with your mom.

I found the sheets of paper

where you drew a very good truck –

I think the clue was “mudflaps” –

and the lists of words describing the Superbowl.

Just when I thought I had swept all the memories away

and collected the bits and pieces in the dustpan,

which I immediately disposed of

in the garbage,

here are a few crumbs left behind –

ruins, vestiges, some pathetic leftovers –

in a box of a game I apparently

haven’t played in half a year.

The first Christmas, she bought me the original Cranium.

I was in St. Thomas with my mom,

but upon my return, you presened me a wrapped box,

the weight told me it was what I hoped it was –

the board game I had asked for and was so happy to receive.

We played with Rich and Kristin,

and we won. Every time.

We were a good team back then.

Before you got so into yourself

and forgot about me. Or so it seemed.

The second Christmas, you bought me crystal earrings

and the new Cranium.

We played on Christmas Eve with your entire family.

The dog stepped on the box and tore the lid.

I was irritated. And I still am, a little bit,

even now, six months later.

Tonight I found those sheets of paper, those drawings –

those memories –

tucked in the box,

like a fossil record of family fun.

I was with new friends when I discovered them.

Emotionless, I said, “Oh, wow. These are from the last time I played.

My ex drew this,” gesturing to your very good truck.

Immediately, I gathered up all the remains of our board game past,

and decisively tore up the papers in one, two, three…four pieces.

Into the trash.

Now part of me wishes I kept them

to bring them home

to put with the cards and letters I wrote for you

that are in the scrapbook I was making for you

with all the love I had inside for you

that was poured out onto those pages for you

to burn them all.

Then at least while I was cleaning up the ashes –

because, unfortunately, I guess I still am –

I wouldn’t have to see the evidence.