Today, I had to retrieve a file, and ended up blowing my whole breastplate open. I keep saying I’m going to hide all of those pictures and screenshots, and other shit that reminds me of the time when he was present, in a folder where I’ll never have to pack my chest full of gauze again, but every time I try, I get stuck in the memories.
As I sat here wondering if he ever thinks of me, I made a list of all of the shit I’ve done to get over this dude. I mean, it’s on me, like I forgot to use a dryer sheet.
Let’s have a little looksie at what hasn’t worked, shall we?
I tried talking cash shit about the dude to my people.
They were not buying that shit for a second. They didn’t even pretend to believe me. They did, however, tell me that I should work on my delivery if I expected to be taken seriously.
I tried fixing it with shoes.
Not just once, either. Crying to the smell of new leather, thankful it isn’t suede.
I tried metal. Old and new.
Pantera didn’t fix it. FFDP didn’t fix it. Just angrier and still not over him.
I tried love songs. Old and new.
Nope for Love TKO. Nope for Zara Laarson. Just turned it off. They all sound something like how it felt like to love him.
I threw some ice cream at it.
What? I’m fucking weak, ok? I didn’t even put it in a bowl. I ate it straight from the carton. After I poured the syrup in there too. Fuck it.
I tried hand mopping the floors.
But then Kevin Gates said “I’ll find you again, love”, and I sat in the kitchen floor and cried. Then I got the ice cream out of the freezer again.
Redundant.
I tried drinking him away.
Two Stellas later, I’m calling the Good Exes for reassurance. Which is why I don’t drink anymore. I think having emotional existential crisis conferences with the other guys I used to love is the obvious solution.
I’m a fucking genius.
How in the actual fu-
I tried getting out.
Had stuffed French toast at 4am with a guy. Told him I sat in the kitchen floor and cried. He wasn’t impressed with my gangster. Took Puffin random moping the cul-de-sac. Discovered every bat in America hangs out in the trees at the back of my neighborhood.
Rerouted.
I haven’t heard from him in 60 days. Probably going to be back to my old self soon. I keep trying to remember how long it took the last time, but the last time was him, too. And the one prior to that. This should be on my fucking resume at this point.
Could probably draw a fucking schematic and shit.
“Follow the arrows on the flow chart, sir”.
It would be pretty great if he wasn’t a real-life hero. And gorgeous. And smart. And so interesting I built a whole novel around him.
I really need to start thinking shit through. High ass standards mean only seeing guys that it sucks to lose.
I can’t figure out if that’s ironic or not.
I’m sure there’s a better term.
I think I know exactly who we’re talking about. 💜💜💜💜
I totally get you. 💜💜💜💜