Even The Queen Cries...
Someone pass me a hundred dollar bill so that I may blot my eyes, please.
Bitchfaces. How goes it? Dirty bitches in the back row, kindly fuck off.
Over the last week, a few things have taken place in my life that really had me feeling some fucking type of way. Not the good type. The “are you fucking serious” way.
I’m really getting sick of that type of way. That type of way can head right on out with the dirty bitches from the back row.
I spoke to the Marine. It was a lackluster beige. He gave the same excuse. I thought I wasn’t as big hurt by it as I was until this afternoon.
I have a couple of people that I’ve been friends with since middle school days. We don’t talk every day; we talk as necessary. I just so happened to be voice clipping one of them today, and he said, “get out of your head”. He could hear it in my voice. He was right.
I called him and we talked, not initially about the Marine, but as we rounded the corner to it, I was crying. Unheard of when speaking to this friend, we call each other Fuckface as a term of endearment.
I’m hurt. I’m really and truly just hurt by the lack of fucking feeling and empathy that people who claim to care for me as a person exhibit. I’m hurt that I can talk to someone every day for a year and they can walk out on me like I’m not even human.
It makes me, yet again, question my own judgement. How in the fuck am I not seeing this shit? How am I consistently mistaking these arrogant, empty motherfuckers for actual people? Am I mentally deficient?
Of course, compounding the situation, is some other shady fuck who also had me completely hosed. I feel like in terms of men, I will always make the wrong choice. I will always totally fuck up and find myself completely enamored with emotionally unavailable Tin Men who couldn’t love you if you went to Oz yourself and picked up the heart.
They just don’t have the capacity. They simply lack the ability.
Guys, I think I might be through. I think that at this stage, I would be a fool to risk another failed relationship, because starting over again is not an option. I would have to run his ass through a woodchipper.
Y’all know how difficult it’s going to be to shove a grown ass man into a woodchipper while in stilettos in the St. Augustine grass in my yard?
Quite. Quite fucking difficult.
I would have to get another dude involved just to shove the current one into the chipper, and now look. I’ve just doubled my fucking problems, and you don’t even need me to break it down on the white board to understand what a real pain in the ass that is.
And after talking with my lifelong friend about it today, that is what has made me sad. For all of the killer that hope can be, hope is butterflies in your stomach and getting dressed a little dressier in case you see them, and hope is smiling when your phone dings, and hope is a killer.
I don’t have that now. I just have a whole lot of slightly nodding my head no, and playlists I’ll never be able to listen to again, and pictures that I finally had decided were going to be deleted, and now I’m right back to telling myself that I don’t need to delete them today. They’ll hold fine for another week or two.
I feel like such a complete idiot every time, but every time, I answer. Because I will always answer. Even knowing what I know, even knowing how it will end, I tell myself it’s worth it for the time I can feel connected to someone.
But really, that’s false. Because how can you be connected to someone who doesn’t give a fuck about hurting you. You can’t. You’re lying to yourself.
I’m lying to myself.
Repeatedly. I keep doing it. Over and fucking over again. As though I’m insane.
Yeah. I’m out. I’m done. I have that look on my face, the sneer so hard my lip raises up like Puffins does. That’s the look of disgust. This whole fucking soap opera just disgusts me.
I’m replacing “hoping for a partner” with writing pitches. This way I’ll finally have some fucking money to show for all the complete assholes I have been involved with.
That should take the sad right off of me. Y’all know how money has the ability to make everything sunshine and rainbows in my life again.
Money doesn’t tell me it loves me, then tell me we aren’t even serious. Money doesn’t skip town and not speak to me for 3 months. And money would never dead ass lie to my face and make me feel as though there is something wrong with me, when really, it isn’t me. It’s them.
They really fucking suck.
I’m off to write some pitches now. Have some Bruno Mali. This backbeat. Jesus it’s vicious like Sid.
You don't need a dude to help with the woodchipper...you've got a sis for that. Love you ❤
Oh girl.....I feel this so deeply. And I have a clown from the past in /out of my message box who allegedly really wanted to see me while in town for the holidays. Has that happened? You know the answer. Being starved for connection is the only reason we entertain this shit. It's futile.
I so appreciate your ability to pepper your pain with humor. That woodchip part is priceless! I hope they never take that from you.