Facebook is this weird plane of existence where past co-mingles with your present. I recently as in about 10 minutes ago opened a email from an angry wife. Apparently her husband bookmarked my blog and has been creeping my Facebook. Fellas always clear the history if you have a snoopy wife. And chances are you have a snoopy wife. I know because I am one. She wanted to know what my relationship and intentions were toward her husband. Seeing as I think we have said hello once in the past 13 or so years I’m not sure what my response should be.
Well actually my response is this blog. I have freaked on Matt over ex-girlfriends. Mostly because they were still pursuing him. Which I feel I had just cause for my “crazy” reaction. A conversation is one thing. Pictures of lady bits totally different story. But even still I had a moment of clarity. I can not control what Matt does. If his penis falls into another vagina I can’t control that. I can control the fire I will set to all his belongings including the mustache. But I can not control him.
The majority of fellows I previously dated so so long ago have gotten fat or bald. Let themselves go. Nothing against fat or bald but I’m shallow. If you read my blog this would be pretty evident. If I’m going to throw away my life it will not be for a fat, bald, or fat and bald man. Now if your husband or boyfriend is hot, tattooed, and possibly rich we might have an issue then. Especially the rich part. Momma likes to shop.
Seriously I love my husband. My husband is also a rare anomaly in my life. I do not generally look back. I’m not one to hold onto past flames. When I’m done that’s it. Matt was really the exception.
I am actually a pretty cool chick. You might find we get along, that we have things in common. And I really have no interest in your significant other. You can keep him. Maybe consider some therapy or a stiff drink. I deleted your email. I’m going to pretend I never got it. Well this will live on forever in cyberspace. But we could be friendly or you could just never email me again. I am cool with either.
Disclaimer: I’m not hating on fat, bald, or fat and bald men. I know they need love too:)
Do I really just have to pick one I have a few? I’m going to go above and beyond with this challenge and give you a few songs.
I loved a boy in high school. And by loved I mean I used and abused him. Then one day it was all over. Looking back which you should never do. I see how awful I was. He was sweet and sensitive. I pretty much chewed him up and spit him out. But that is what you do when you are young, headstrong, and essentially broken. One night we sat in his car, he actually wouldn’t let me out. He yelled at me and cried. He wrote me this five-page letter, front and back. It was the first time I became aware that my actions could truly hurt someone. I wounded someone and this song played on the stereo. It was my own personal soundtrack that night. When ever I hear it I’m reminded of that moment. And it makes me sad.
A good portion of my twenties was spent in a dysfunctional relationship. One that I generally do not speak of. Merely because it was easier to forget about it rather than hold onto any resentment or anger. I played my role. I made my bed. I laid in it. I discovered this song one day. It was almost empowering. How could someone sum up all my feelings in 3 minutes and 35 seconds. When I listen to it now I feel a mix of anger and sadness. Disappointment in myself for weakness. Disappointment for believing I was not good enough, that I did not deserve more. That I stayed. I could write a book. But instead I will keep that chapter closed.
Which brings me to this life, the now. If you read my blog you know that I had miscarriage after miscarriage. That we had resigned ourselves to not having any children together. My first miscarriage occurred on October 26th, 2008. It was devastating. Our relationship was still new and fragile. This picture was taken that day.We would suffer through another miscarriage in December of the same year. Followed by the one that finally dashed all of our hopes in July of 2009. It was our 11 week check up. I laid down on the table for a sonogram. Matt grinned at me. We took Morgan she was giddy with anticipation. The goo on my belly was cold. Then the tech excused herself. I felt dread build up inside me. The doctor looked at the screen. “I’m sorry there is no heartbeat, your baby stopped developing.” I can still see the look on Matt’s face. That moment almost broke us.
The car ride home this song played. It became the one thing I identified with our loss. It took over a year before I could listen to it with out crying. The twins were our remedy, our cure. And now I can listen to this song without tears.
No not venereal disease silly, Valentine’s Day! I have nothing snide, snarky, or clever to say about this hallmark holiday. Because I freaking love Valentine’s Day. I personally feel if you do not like Valentine’s Day it is because…
1. You are Bitter
2. You are alone
3. You are a Jehovah’s Witness
4. You are too cool for school, possibly a hipster
5. You have no soul
Did I mention bitter and alone?
Actually I may have no soul. I had this rule about waiting till after holidays to break up with boyfriends. Except that one time I moved out of my own apartment right before my birthday. Long story, not really I’m an asshole. But anyways I love presents. I would have 5 husbands or maybe several boyfriends just to get presents. Hmm can I do that?
I love chocolates that come in a shiny red heart box and I am one of those people who takes a bite out of each one. I love conversational hearts and sappy cards. I love roses. I love pink dogs, kittens, bears, bunnies, and every other stuffed animal you could possibly imagine. I love jewelry that I will never wear. I love red lacy panties. And I’m on board with any holiday that encourages getting it on.