A Not So Perfect Ending

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I knew this would end badly. I should say that right away because I don’t want to give the impression that I’m not fully responsible for the head and heartache plaguing me these days.

Years ago, he became the unwitting recipient of my wayward pregnancy dreams. I was horrified and my midwife assured me that my subconscious had a mind of it’s own whilst growing a human. My sweet baby was born, my whole world had imploded, and the craving only grew. He was never anything more than my Perfect friend. We worked together, and I could objectify him silently. He hung in the doorway with a whisk in his hand, asking me how the night had gone and I mentally undressed him, daily.

He met a horrible woman who moved him away. He continues to belong to her even though she’s moved away from him, too.

The first time he came to visit, I had no idea where he was coming from when he kissed me in the middle of the bar and we got a little too naked in the tent later that night. The hangover was intense, as he didn’t remember a thing and I erased him from my life with the horrified knee-jerk reaction of a broken heart.

Some people occupy space no matter the level of communication, or lack thereof.

Just the sight of kitchen utensils makes me fight back tears, and I love the kitchen.

So when I heard he was coming back this summer, I knew what I had to do. I didn’t do it, but I knew I should have avoided him, entirely. I offer fantastic advice that I never follow.

I knew it would be bad. I knew I shouldn’t see him and I knew I should leave well enough alone.

Shocker… I did it anyway.

One sight of him and I knew exactly how bad it would be when he left. I wasn’t wrong. I can’t cry about the state of affairs because I knew exactly what I was asking for, when he kissed me for the first time.

You can’t have casual sex with the man you’ve been in love with. Trust me. My retinas are burned with intimate images of me in his t-shirt, him under me, kissing him. I can’t get away from it and I can’t sleep. I packed the sheets away that he slept in because I can’t look at them without seeing him laying there. I had sensational sex with a friend in the hopes of changing how I feel about my bed. It hasn’t worked.

One text from him about the game he’s watching and I see his face on my pillow. He asks me how my day is and I can taste him. I’m torturing myself for anything of him.

Running. Trying to date. Doing my best to let go, then he’s back and I’m broken again.

Until today.

Today I quit him. I quit all of it.

If I wanted to feel shitty and insignificant, I’d date college boys. There would at least be some fringe benefits to THAT.

I wish I could say I felt better, but I’ll settle for smarter.

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Overtext

I miss dating like it was when I was in junior high. No caller ID, no Facebook, no cell phones. It really was a blissful time to grow up and learn how to fall in love.

Your heart raced every time the phone rang and you answered with every cell in your body on edge, praying to every saint you could remember, that it was your crush.

When it actually was?

Nirvana.

These days you can see every damn detail of his life before you even say hello. You know what he drives, the food he eats and I’d be willing to bet, a few of his exes; thanks to laziness on his part in deleting old uploads. You see his kids before your first date.

Hell, if you’ve exchanged numbers with him, I’d be willing to bet you’ve seen his dick, too. Guys are quick to offer them up these days.

There are no secrets anymore. It’s all out there from the second he says hi.

I’m going to be a real bitch for a second. I fucking loathe the amount of time this shit takes. I don’t mind a date once a week. I can deal with that. Texting all day? NO. It is slightly moderately disturbing how much a pilot can text. 101 text messages. I just counted, twice. 7 pictures. I can handle about five a day, ten at the most and only if inspired.

I just don’t care that much, and I don’t care AT ALL what someone is eating. This is the longest fucking date, ever…

I’m sure he’s really nice… but he’s gone down that awkward path of being sexual before we met. It’s an unpleasant side effect of this endless texting. A false sense of intimacy with a stranger, who is absolutely not ready for it. I was silent.

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#ghosted

Why are they all SO crazy? This is the crazy shit that makes me want to bleach a few Perfect memories out of my head because trying to replace him is torture. They’re either completely unattractive or they’re raging douche bags. There doesn’t seem to be any middle ground and it is so pathetic that I don’t think I can do it.

I went to bed annoyed and frustrated. Mad at myself for picking a fight with my dick on call. Tossing and turning until I got up and slipped quietly into my workout gear. I put my headphones on, climbed onto the elliptical machine and ran in the dark to the songs that are torturing me. Shaking my head to stop the thoughts about him. Missing someone can be the greatest form of torture. I can’t get away from my own thoughts and he’s too far away.

I know I could text him and he’d respond. I could ask him about his week. He would tell me. I could ask about his day. What he had for dinner. What game he’s watching. These are all available details. They’re also none of what I want to hear. For a while, it was enough and I was thrilled just to hear my phone announce that it was holding a message from the man I want most.

It wasn’t enough for very long and I had to force myself to delete him out of my phone to save myself. Biting back L-bombs and choking on tears because old habits die hard and I knew myself enough to know I could not leave him in reach.

It helped to touch someone else but I can’t help but miss him and my heart just doesn’t shift gears. It’s great to shake off the painful edge with someone that you aren’t invested in, dedicated purely to please you but if I thought it was going to fix everything, I was mistaken. I love a pretty Band-aid as much as the next girl but it can’t fix a lot if the damage is internal.

Sound asleep, I hear the sound I wait for. Fuck. I stared at the ceiling until I couldn’t help myself.

Tired and mad enough at the state of affairs, I said plenty.

IMG_8476He apologized, because he’s perfect and that’s what men do. I’m stuck on the fact that the beard is gone and all I want to do is climb into his lap and kiss his silky face.

God damn it. Now my mind is racing.

He’s gone silent since I told him to stop making platonic small-talk with me. Not exactly what I meant but I have to admit to myself that I’m getting far too much satisfaction from conversations more tame than I have with my mother and siblings.

I don’t want to talk about the damn weather with him. I want to talk about when he’s coming home to chase me around the kitchen. I miss the whisk that’s been banished since he was here this summer and the thought of him holding my spatula, gives me goosebumps.

One Perfect sentence and I’m back on the elliptical machine, running the agony off. Thankful that he’s finally helping my ass look good instead of just breaking my heart.