The reasons why I do not want you in my life any longer:
1) You make me feel like poop more often than you make me feel happy.
2) I get jealous when you are with another guy. Even though we are no longer together (if you even considered us being together once, because you never acted like you considered my feelings).
3) You make me cry more than I smile. Especially at those memories of us.
4) My days revolve(d) around you when I should have, could have, would have been doing something happier and more productive. Like journaling. Or working out an extra half hour. Instead of waiting like a lost puppy at your office reception.
5) You are an addiction. Worse than my food addiction. And quite frankly it is scaring me.
6) I get insecure whenever you make contact. It sends me into a spiral of hopefulness and self loathing and wondering if I should drop everything in my life just for you. Then you shove me away. And I lash out at you, saying every hurtful thing I can think of. Then we promise never to talk again, ever. Or to even see each other. Then the cycle starts anew when you want to be friends. Or something.
7) You ruin all the progress I make. Some days I start believing I can be alright and whole again. I think you take advantage of the fact that I will always be weak for you.
8) You don’t realize how badly I want you to work for what you think you deserve.
9) I do not know when you are wholly honest with me. I don’t want to feel like a kid who cannot take the harsh reality of the entire world, when you withhold truths ‘for my own good’.
10) I feel empty waiting for your responses. And go belly up on food. And get so mad at you when you reply while I am halfway through my pint of ice cream. Relieved, yes. But so god damn angry.
11) I feel like I am always left hanging over the precipice waiting for you. And you don’t feel like you ever are in danger of losing me. Sometimes I wonder if you’re right.
12) I am your backup plan when you don’t get anyone else to share your happiness with. I deserve better than this.
13) This obsessiveness is unhealthy. You know it. I know it. Yet you keep tugging at those remaining strings in my heart that feel fond for you.
14) You leave me sleepless.
15) You know my secrets. And all the ways to hurt me. And how to make me feel fucking insecure.
16) You know what I want. And you choose to kick me in my nuts. Knowing I am that idiot mutt that will come back for more.
17) I have resolved, selfishly, to hate you. So I do not have to love you any longer.
“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings.”
I don’t want to stop loving you.
Dear Indonesian farmers who love setting your fields on fire annually and saturating the air with all the annoying particulates: I HOPE YOU DIE IN THE CONFLAGRATION.
In other news, this haze is killer.
Be right back, asthma attack under way.
Notes to self if I find self in a cheap slasher movie:
-Refrain from sexual dalliances when I know a serial murderer is on the loose and offing my friends. The Final Girl gets all the time in the world to bone the new guy after the movie.
-Find new friends if I find myself as the token minority in the group; see: Black dude dies first.
-Must. Not. Investigate. Strange. Sounds.
-Never make plans to vacation in a secluded/abandoned/creepy cabin/woods/valley, no matter how cheap the offer is.
-Stay calm and not scream endlessly.
-Never wear high heels. Wear good running shoes.
-Act upon vices that put me in bad light which makes me an unsympathetic jerk that has the audience cheering for my grisly, painful death.
Mission: learn to drive.
Reasons: to be really sweet and to be able to drive whoever you love out.
Greatest fear: realizing I am in control of a contraption that has the ability kill loads of people. Crazy Taxi style.
“Why do you insist on living in the past?”
And I have to ask myself: why? All I am doing is looking back at something which can never be changed and wallowing in regret and self pity. Running from the old hurts, which is ironic; because the same hurts will haunt and taunt me for as long as I live in fear of being stabbed the same way again.
It is time to turn the page on what that is over. And look forward to a new day.
And after the rage has consumed itself utterly in its own fire, all that is left is glowing embers and the sour memories. A hollow feeling, in the space where all the most intense feelings in my being exists. The bitter taste of disappointment. Not in somebody else, but in my own behavior.
Endings and partings do not come easily to me. Happy ones doubly so. For how are you able to kiss something goodbye and wish it all the best, if it once meant the world to you?
I hope that with time, the anger will cease roiling and I can look back at the memory of the time together in peace. Not for anyone else’s sake but my own.
Fuck you for cheating on me. Fuck you for reducing it to the word cheating. As if this were a card game, and you sneaked a look at my hand.
Who came up with the term cheating, anyway? A cheater, I imagine. Someone who thought liar was too harsh. Someone who thought devastator was too emotional. The same person who thought, oops, he’d gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Fuck you.
This isn’t about slipping yourself an extra twenty dollars of Monopoly money. These are our lives. You went and broke our lives. You are so much worse than a cheater. You killed something. And you killed it when its back was turned.
The idea of being friends after breaking up can be really seductive. There has to be some kind of deep connection for two people to have fallen in love, stuck around each other for more than three years and all (conveniently forgetting about the horrible break up), right?
But you can’t really be friends after sharing something as intimate as a relationship. Acquaintances, strangers with a common past, something; but never friends.
Friends do not feel jealous and possessive (well, not all the time at least) of the other when that friend gets a date. Friends don’t go “Hey, you were once mine, and I refuse to let someone else touch you the same way I did!” nor do they have to force themselves to smile while dying on the inside.
Friends do not bicker like an old, married couple and bring up all the events and resentment buried in the past. All the fucking time, whenever they have a disagreement.
And finally, friends do not feel the frission of primal attraction when about each other. Staring at those lips you once kissed and wondering if you can taste them again. And hating yourself knowing someone else might, or probably would, have been nibbling at them gently in your absence.
Friends with an ex? Nah, a pipe dream. Or loads of delusion involved.
We pump weights, run like rats on a treadmill, hate the reflection in the reflective surfaces… And all for what end? Because the world says that you are not allowed to have an ounce of fat on your body, that being fat is the same as having a lack of self control?
