There’s a particular strain of insanity that encourages the kind of decision making that involves breaking up, reconciling, and buying tickets to Madrid all in the same night, but it should come as no surprise that I’m right there in the middle of it.
Moving my life to a coast where the concept of pizza is a sliced tomato on focaccia has made it really easy to start throwing punches while making any sort of life choice impossible to make. It’s like being high while trying to do your taxes, only replace ‘high’ with ‘poor’ and ‘taxes’ with nothing because I’m pretty sure eating graham crackers in my underwear doesn’t bring in any reportable income. This doesn’t mean that there’s a guaranteed happy ending (dirty), it just means that as usual, I don’t know what I’m doing.
So, I’m leaving today with my former ex but now current boyfriend for a two week trip to Europe. If I don’t make it back, you guys can fight it out for my copy of Son in Law.
One year anniversaries are special. This is a time in the relationship where you wake up next to each other and think, “I love you” instead of, “Why are you still here?” I looked forward to mine for months, which I know kind of seems crazy, but you have to understand that this is the first relationship I’ve had where I get solid dick on a daily basis. So, can you really blame me?
Our anniversary fell on Friday the 13th and while some couples may have taken advantage and had some sort of John Edwards-esque seance, we opted to go out for steak, split a bacon bar, and then fuck all night. Incidentally, this happens to be how I would envision heaven, provided that I believed in the concept.
That night, I shaved my pussy, put on my dress and heels, and skipped the underwear. On my way to pick him up from work, I prepared myself for a night of debauchery, but the rug was soon pulled out from under me. I got there, we played an especially saccharine game of “No, I love you more” and exchanged gifts. However, he didn’t get me a card, and I suddenly felt foolish for giving him one with a picture of two hugging cats on the front. I tried to bust his balls hoping that I could joke my way out of the aggravation, but knowing that I fucking wrote him something that would embarrass even the most avid Josh Groban fan wouldn’t allow it.
We drove in silence for what seemed like hours, but not before he took a heart shaped cookie he got from work, broke it in half, and handed over my share. The symbolism didn’t mock me until much later, since at that moment, I was more concerned with chewing on this brittle confection as I thought, “He didn’t get me a card. He didn’t get me a card. He didn’t get me a card.” Ok, look. I know I’m coming off as a complete nut job so far. By now, most of you are probably trying to track him down to tell him how sorry you are that he lives with me. That’s fine. Despite having a vagina, my needs aren’t complicated. I just wanted a card with maybe a “Nice job, buddy” written inside.
Eventually, we decided to abort the night. We were both in terrible moods, mostly because we failed to communicate and instead, began every sentence with, “No, you’re shittier because…”. Then, he did something that you only see in bad romantic comedies, and it usually makes you think, “I should’ve watched Ernest Scared Stupid instead”. Hegot out of the car. We were at a stoplight when he opened the door, and walked out onto the sidewalk next to the sketchiest Denny’s ever, which is really saying something (sorry, Nannerpuss). Naturally, I freaked out. I had no choice but to keep driving and through tears and anger, I thought, “Fuck him, I’ll go home and he can find his own way back”. Unfortunately, I am not that much of a cunt, so I turned around and waited for him in the Denny’s parking lot. I called him, hoping that he was inside drowning his sorrows in a Moons Over My Hammy. I kept calling and after my sixth attempt, found out that he was just walking aimlessly around in an area that only David Berkowitz could truly appreciate, and so a shouting match ensued while I tried to coax him back. I was eventually successful, we talked, cried, and went to dinner as if nothing happened.
The night ended with oral that made my eyes cross, and while that made it easier to forgive, I didn’t forget. The next morning, I went out to the car and activated the child locks. Just in case.
I used to live in a shitty apartment. I know everyone says this, but I mean it. This was the kind of place where there were more pit bulls than people, and clusters of stray shopping carts replaced what would’ve otherwise been landscaping . The kitchen cabinets looked like they were engineered by a blind ten year old, and the counters were made of a beautiful cork (painted white) that broke off in large chunks whenever it was wet. The carpet was soaked in what I hope was pet urine, which after a vat of Febreze, smelled like urine and…laundry. Bob Villa himself couldn’t have made this place habitable, but it at least had cable, so I couldn’t complain too much.
I watched a lot of TV back then, usually while eating a platter of egg and cheese biscuits I made for myself. I attribute this to the fact that my dick well was bone dry and I wasn’t expecting it to fill up anytime soon. So one day, when my ex and I got into a fight (the origins of which I have long forgotten) and he tried to take his TV, I snapped. I lost it. I thought, “You deprive me of dick and now you want to take away the TV?! Why don’t you just come out in the middle of the night when I am masturbating on the couch where I sleep now and cut my fingers off? Then you could really take away everything I have.”
This is all sounding exceedingly pathetic (because it is), so I believe it deserves an explanation. My ex, James, and I were together for a little over 3 years, 2 of which were spent living together in Joe’s Apartment. However, our relationship slowly devolved into more of a friendship as time passed, but we both failed to properly recognize it. Instead, I slept on the couch in another room, we never had sex, and I sought companionship in a puddle of Kraft cheese.
This should come as no surprise, but the same apartment with the paper mache walls and spider infestation, didn’t exactly have windows made of bullet proof glass either. They were more like panes of solidified sugar. I learned this when I tried to push him out of one of them.
During this fight, James threatened to take all of his belongings and move them into the bedroom, and essentially turn our one bedroom apartment into two, with me occupying the living room. He would pull this card a lot, and every time, I felt like Harry Potter when he was forced to live under the stairs at his Uncle’s house. Sure, he would’ve been gracious enough to permit me use of the couch and the coffee table that I bought for $4 at the Salvation Army, but other than that, everything else was his and he had plans to cram it all in one room.
I leapt at him from my masturbation pad (couch) as I saw him advance toward the TV and attempt to take it out of my life forever. At this point, he had a choice to make. He could fend me off and surrender the television, or risk breaking the television and have to explain a black eye the next day. There was, however, Secret Option C, which resulted in a broken window and fragmented relationship, the pieces of which were never fully retrieved. I still remember the look in his eyes as I tried my best to expel him from the second floor of our apartment and onto the rotten shrubs below. It was a mix of “Oh my god I am going to die”, and “I can’t believe she is doing this over an episode of Top Chef.”
The window was eventually remedied with a trash bag and duct tape, which was probably an improvement from what we had before. The large black pane was a constant reminder of my broken relationship, but seeing it out of the corner of my eye as I watched my precious TV, somehow made the biscuit sandwiches taste a little sweeter.
There comes a time in every relationship when you have The Fight. You know what I’m talking about, at least I hope you do because if you don’t, it just means that I am exceptionally dysfunctional.
The Fight is kind of like an orgasm–you definitely know when you’ve had one and once you have, it really fucking drains you. The Fight isn’t about forgetting to buy milk or renting Top Gun for the fourth time. No–it’s much more innocuous than that. The Fight is something you believe you can never come back from and in many cases, you can’t. During the middle of one, I usually find myself constructing a playlist of really good breakup songs, which in case you’re in the market, includes The Mountain Goats “No Children”, Martha Wainwright’s “Bloody Mother-Fucking Asshole”, and if you want to take a break from hating everything and everyone around you, “Deceptacon” by Le Tigre.
The Fight is usually something that blindsides you. You will never see it coming and you will never be able to explain why it happened. Enduring The Fight is what I imagine it would be like to accidentally kill someone. There you are, butter knife in hand, wondering how an innocent impersonation of Robin Hood could’ve lead to a death so undignified that it belongs in a Final Destination sequel.
The mood of The Fight is that of confusion and rage, which are one hell of a tag team. You’re simultaneously trying to figure out how you got there, and you’re angry that you did. Emotions grow exponentially and you find yourself staring back at the words “miserable fucking cunt” , as you attempt to pick up the pieces of your self respect off the floor.
I’ve been in two long term relationships, one of which is still shockingly alive after recently enduring The Fight (see the aforementioned “miserable fucking cunt”). My first relationship didn’t end as a result of The Fight either, but I remember it vividly and trust me, it’s a good story–just not right now.
I am the first to admit that I am incorrigible. This whole mess started because I didn’t get any dick that day, and as someone who has an insatiable sex drive, that left me quite displeased. Of course I couldn’t be an adult and actually communicate, or just plop my pussy on his face and say, “eat up”, but instead I had to go relegate myself to the couch and pout. The poor guy was nearly relentless in trying to console me, but I was determined to put even the most die hard Linkin Park fan to shame with my sorrow, so it was an act in futility.
Sleep deprivation set in and that’s when the screaming began. Decibels I never knew existed began exiting his mouth. After many tears and a harsh exchange of words, we finally got to sleep, but I was left with a lingering feeling that the next morning would be sheathed in discomfort and silence. Especially since the Vermont Teddy Bear Company doesn’t make anything that would really be appropriate for the occasion.
Somehow, the knots loosened and apologies were exchanged. One day, I will salt the earth and start over with a woman. Until then, I’ll continue to build my playlist.
