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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Horrible Quitter

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I’m the original glutton for punishment. It’s my worst quality. I have no choice but to take responsibility for it because it’s common knowledge amongst everyone who knows and loves me. Hell, even my enemies know I’m far better at hurting myself than they are.

I always see the writing on the wall… I just don’t read the words.

I was at work on Friday afternoon when a text came buzzing into the phone I’d tucked into my bra. His tone is different and my heart races and breaks at the same time. I miss him so much at this point that it’s a dull ache. I’m also irritated enough to snap because of the instant smile it puts on my face. It’s a horrible thing to be waiting for the message that destroys all the progress you’ve made in one split second.

Perfection- Why?

Why. Why, indeed. How? would also be an appropriate question; since our conversations revolve around the weather and football. I’ve been swallowing my broken heart for the most mundane of messages. Finally able to miss him without being upset about it.

And here he is. Back. Getting an eyeful because I’m just mad enough to say the things I’ve been doing my best to swallow.

J- Then tell me you miss me. I can’t be naked with you one second and talking about the weather in the next instance. 

Silence. He falls asleep when things get honest and I’m waiting for answers. My heart is back in my throat and he still isn’t saying the words I want him to. The only thing that’s changed is that he’s reading about how much it dented me.

For the record, it’s a really mixed blessing to have the man you crave, read your blog. I absolutely have exploited them with it, I have written a man into my sheets and I have burned a few at the stake when things ended poorly.  It takes a VERY brave man to roll with it, especially when I’m furious. The smartest men who were reading whilst seeing me, have exploited the fact that they could have personalized porn written about themselves if they played their cards right. I’m a lot of fun when you leave me inspired and wordy.

Ohhhh but when you break my heart, I’m pretty damn sad about it and they feel awfully guilty when they continue to read after things are over.

Newsflash, Perfection…

You’re reading my journal. 

If you hurt me, chances are good that I wont have you riding in on a white horse. When you take my favorite dick away? I’m not really going to ramble on and on about it anymore. 

You’re going to read about my hurt feelings and the regret I have for being so stupid to do something a second time that hurt like hell the first. 

You’re going to read about how disappointed I was to find out you had a girlfriend you didn’t mention. The girlfriend you still have. 

I can’t stop you from reading, but I can’t make you feel better about it either. 

We can text about weather and you can avoid my questions, but I suggest you read at your own risk. I love you, but I also wouldn’t feel bad if you felt as bad as I have. 

Frankly, nothing inspires me to have swing-from-the-chandeliers-sex more than knowing you’ll be reading about it, so maybe thanks are in order?

xoxo J

Reality Check

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My phone has a life of its own. Tinder is a whole new experience for me and I am quite popular, it seems. It’s less than exciting, but whatever works.

A booty call incinerates me from the ground up, but it’s difficult to walk around smoldering all the time. Don’t judge…I’m coping and it’s working. It’s been invaluable in helping me melt myself back together. I got my heart broken falling in love with Mr. Perfection, again.

Old habits die hard, my friends and I am a huge glutton for punishment when it comes to he who wields the whisk.

Being stupid in love with someone you know is not in love with you, is an act of insanity. I knew he was coming to visit this summer and I promised myself I would close my eyes and head back out to the garden to pull weeds. It was hell the last time I’d seen him and we were finally friends again so a huge part of me wanted to avoid him, altogether.

The same way I don’t casually smoke anymore… I wanted to abstain from my love affair with Perfection.

I just couldn’t.

Miss Lovely and Mrs. Gorgeous talked me into going to a show where he’d be. I tried to decline. I really did. I had long talks with myself about the state of my heart where he was concerned. The juice was not worth the squeeze, and I knew it. That didn’t stop me either. Five years had left me vulnerable and he’d been the center of my fantasies for a very long time. Both intentionally and otherwise.

I wanted to see him. I didn’t care about the cost and I knew it would be steep. I put the right panties on that evening, knowing he’d be the one taking them off. I’d be lying if I said otherwise.

Just seeing him gives me butterflies and makes my mouth dry. I knew I should leave as soon as he said hello and touched my hand. I smiled at him and his cologne hit me as he moved close to hug me. I held my breath. It didn’t help. I hate beards and he is looking quite Amish… but the truth about women is that we hold no standards or restrictions for the men we love most. He could look like he’s part of the Duck Dynasty family and I would still adore him. He’s my Perfection. All my filters are disabled and I’m throwing every single standard and rule I have, out the window.

I knew I was welcoming suffering when I felt him grab my fingertips and pull me over to take a shot with the rest of them. The lines were getting blurry and he was morphing into the version of him that I love most. Unfortunately, that guy only shows up when he’s drunk.

P- You look really good. I’ve missed you. Sorry I haven’t been in touch.

J- I’m sorry you’re going to wind up in my bed tonight.

It’s different when you are emotionally intimate with someone and he’s been there for me as a friend through some of the most horrible times. He is my walking-talking-dream guy when he’s 6 inches away, but he’s a few thousand miles away and he quickly becomes my football pal and the reason I cry over mimosas with my best friend, Miss Fancy.

Back in the friend zone… bleeding from the heart and drowning in regret. He’s gone in the wind from the moment his flight takes off.

I’m ashamed of myself for immediately throwing all my lessons out the window and forgetting that the past repeats itself if you forget the lessons you were supposed to learn the first time.

I will love again, I can still be and feel sexy and someday, hopefully in the not too distant future, I’ll stop thinking about him every time a sad song comes on. I deleted him out of my phone, off the iPad and just away.

I gave his text tone to the man who curls my toes and I set myself free from waiting. It’s the only grown thing to do because happiness begets happiness, and he only makes my heart ache. In a perfect world, it’d be completely different, but here we are and here it is.

It’s finally behind me and I can look at my bed again without feeling hollow. Say what you will, but I do believe the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else and a friend did for me what I could not do for myself. He erased the touch that was haunting me by blowing my mind, kissed me blind so I could forget and reminded me that I want far more than to be a vacation highlight.

Sometimes it’s heartache that heals the most.

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Wifey

He reached for me and I swallowed hard as I felt his nails dig into my wrist. They’d been drinking all day and I’d just gotten off work. Being sober in a bar at midnight is no laughing matter and it was a full house of what looked to be, inebriated teenagers.

I needed booze on board, post haste.

The dirty Bombay Sapphire martini I held, felt like a liquid security blanket even though I appeared to be the only person in the room with an actual glass. His hand on my wrist made my heart race, and the icy cold gin wasn’t helping fast enough.

Something had shifted with him and I could feel it hanging in the space between us. I set my glass down and he pulled me out the door and across the street to another bar.

We’re standing at the end of the bar, halfheartedly trying to order a drink, when a man interrupts us.

M- Hey, Hi- excuse me! I can see that you’re having some sort of romantic and special evening, it’s your anniversary, isn’t it! Can I squeeze in and order?

I blink at Perfection. Completely speechless and thankful for the dark, because I’m positive I’m ruby red.

P- It is. What’s it been, wifey- 3 years? Oh no, 3 years and 10 months.

I’m amazed my shaking knees are holding me. The butterflies in my stomach are making me a little nauseous and I feel feverish. I wish I had a drink in my hand so that I could do something other than look stunned. I finally choke out an awkward response.

J- Sure, hubby. Wow, you’re a daddy too.

P- Bonus!

I’m thankful for my sobriety, and manners…because they were the only things keeping me from propositioning him right then and there. The strange guy just wants to buy a drink, but now that he’s celebrating our anniversary with us, he insists on buying us a shot. I am still so stunned by what’s going on with Perfection that I cannot make up my mind about what I want.

J- Not Fireball or Rumple minze. Anything but those. You decide, Darling.

P- I insist, wife. What do you really want? Tell me what sounds good?

The answers that come to mind would leave him equally as speechless, but his hand is drifting lower on my ass and I can hardly breathe, let alone speak. The stranger is looking at me, expectantly.

J- Washington apples. Thank you.

I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone. Is this real life? Am I hallucinating? Am I really wasted and I just feel far too sober?

We take the shot and the stranger wishes us well on our marriage and leaves. Perfection leans in.

P- Do you know how many times I’ve had dreams about you?

J- Are you feeling alright? I think you’ve been overserved.

Ever have one of those moments where you’re a million miles away from the noisy room you’re standing in? I could feel his heart racing and hear him struggling like me.

This is real life.

This is Perfection.

This is what it’s supposed to feel like. In and of itself, it is a huge relief that I can recognize that. He doesn’t live here, the timing is wrong and he has a few loose ends I don’t want to get tangled in…

But…. it is fanfuckingtastic to have a Perfect evening, and remember what it feels like to be wildly attracted to not just anyone, but someone really and truly special.

Maybe I’m not a catlady, after all.

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