I’m pouting. Good old fashioned, can’t get my shit together, pouting. I’m heartsick and prematurely disappointed over my birthday, which is this Friday. My friend Matt called today to sing to me because he insists on being first and he’s going to be overseas.
I started to get choked up and he leveled me with his wish for me.
M- I hope you get a lovely slice of Incredicock. Actually, scratch that. I hope you get the whole damn dick with a big red bow.
Thanks for verbalizing why I’m already resentful of a birthday destined to disappoint me. He can read through my silence and also the tone in my voice that signals the tears are imminent.
M- Ahhhh Fuck. I said the wrong thing. You’ve gotten stormy. There’s really no hope?
M- Awww babydoll… WTF??? How ’bout Anthony and I come for your birthday? We can make a big dinner from the garden, go get pedicures and we’ll cuddle you while you cry him out of your system. You need to get over this. This is stupid and you’re going to ruin your birthday over it. The bad days have FAR exceeded the good ones with this guy. Why all the love?
Tears. He instantly apologizes but it’s too late. He’s unwrapped my biggest heartache and there’s no shoving it back in the box.
M- You’re no quitter. Stop accepting this and pull your ass out of this funk. Where’s that funny bitch I love? I’m so confused that you’ve gotten so stuck on this one. Why this one? Let’s figure that out.
So many reasons make him impossible to replace. So many details make this insufferable.
I’ve done everything I can do to wash this off, shake this addiction and pacify this need. Well… that’s not entirely true. I’m honest to a fault and I just can’t drag someone else into my suffering… so I’m not getting in the pool until I’m not a danger to anyone else’s poor vulnerable heart.
So please… keep the candles off my cake this year because I will only resent the wishes I can’t help but making and know won’t be answered.
Please just let me pout.