I Wigged Out On The Ex. Scooter Does It Better.
It’s been nine days since we last chatted. Well, since I last chatted *at* you, but whatever.
I’m on Couch #4 (which technically is Couch #1), at my chosen-sister’s house. She’s been ever so accommodating. I truly owe her something grand. Like a massage. A deep tissue massage, at the hands of a muscular man with a smooth touch and mint breath; his bulging biceps dripping with coconut oil sweat.
Had a Blanche Devereaux moment there.
Ummm…so what’s been happening?
I have officially removed all the stuff I’m willing to remove from the shared apartment, and have separated it all into “keep” “sell” and “trash” piles. It feels so good!! Like, sooooo good! I’m leaving a handful of furniture there. He can have it. It’s heavy. It’s falling apart. He can fucking move it his damn self.
I made $93 off my friends who came to an invite-only fundraiser / going away party / potluck thing that my chosen-sister and I hosted this past Saturday. I made way more money than I expected, to be honest. A wonderful time was had by all.
I had a friggin’ awesome collection of wigs which were bought by my favorite lady couple. They have already put the colorful hairs to great use. I am beyond pleased.
And now you shall be bombarded by pictures of Scooter in Hilary Wigs…..
Ok, so the real reason I’m writing tonight is to discuss the emotional freak out I had today.
The ex and I have been broken up for about a month now, and in that time I have lost my mind on him via text exactly twice. Today was the second time. And it was a doozy.
I ventured to the shared apartment to empty out my cedar chest so I can sell it to the ex’s friend. While I was there, I was ruminating in my mind what, if any, furniture I wanted to expel my limited energy on. I went to view a cabinet thing on the ex’s side of the bed, and had to move a pile of his clothes to open the doors.
Side Note: The apartment looked like a goddamn war zone when I walked in. Seriously.
When I moved his clothes, I found the bottle of Astroglide. It was on the floor, which indicated to me that sex had happened.
Ok. Let me stop you now. YES, I realize that we are broken up, and ultimately it’s none of my damn business where he puts his dong. But here’s the deal…there was a chick involved in our break up. Someone he decided his “friendship” with was more important than his relationship with me was.
So yeah. I found the lube. And then I was boxing some shit up on the kitchen table and saw a canvas bag out of the corner of my eye. Being frugal, I checked to see if it was mine. It was not. The bra and tank top and underwear inside the bag made it very clear to me that it belongs to The Whore. Yes, that is exactly what I’m calling her. Bite me.
This is where the crazy-ex-girlfriend in me came out.
This is where The Whore’s clothes found their way into the toilet.
Then I found her dress. It, too, somehow fell in the toilet. Ooops.
And then the “morally right Hilary” came into play, and I threw the clothes on the back deck to dry. Sigh.
In case you’re wondering, yes, I totally sent those pictures to the ex during my freak out. I was tearing into him via text for almost half an hour at this point, obviously pictures were involved.
He said nothing. NOTHING.
Then I got the “I’m in meetings” text. I went silent.
I shall not be returning to the apartment. He can get the key from me this Saturday during my public garage sale. He can have my heavy furniture, and he can move it.
And most importantly…. He.Can.Kiss.My.Ass.