As much as I enjoyed your company, my therapist is sick and tired of hearing about you. She briskly typed up a letter explaining my point of view and pinned it to my chest, with instructions to deliver to you, since you don’t hear me anymore when I try and talk. You see, though you have deemed my life “pathetic” and have made a dramatic departure, your presence still lingers everywhere.
I know you hate the Eagles. I am sure to root for them every Sunday afternoon when I accidently on purpose turn the loud noise box to the mainstream channel and watch the football game. I know that somewhere, you are watching the same station. I wonder if you think about me whilst I reminisce about you, as the Eagles score another touchdown against your beloved Giants. What a connection that would be, my dear boy. I can see the sparks flying out of our television sets as they explode with sparks of luminous true love. Or perhaps with hatred, anger, and jealousy. That would be as electrifying as if the bread aisle at Pathmark set ablaze.
You see, my dear boy, that was the spot upon which my feet were glued to when you broke my heart for the first time. Via text message, may I add? My cell phone nearly burst into tears. Or was that I? It is all hazy now due to my prescription drugs that you make fun of me for taking. Was it not a few months ago that this electronic device received declarations of your undying love, and now only your heart-wrenching rejection? My whole body ached along with an odd churning in my stomach that no dose of Pepto Bismol could cure. Stab me with a dagger, it would have felt delightful compared to this pain you put me through, in that lonely bread aisle. But then again, my blood may have run all over that fake white linoleum floor, and stained the four-dollar packages of Sara Lee and Pepperidge Farm.
This is all getting rather dyslexic now, but you know how I get when I’m on my drugs and struggling with my insomnia. Lets talk fight club. Now, skip the violence and angst; we watched some memorable characters in between our passionate make outs. Maybe you are my Tyler Durden, the every thing that I wish I could be. Maybe I’m your Tyler Durden. I’m everything you ever wanted. So to rid me from your life, must you shoot yourself in the head? Or is breaking my heart in that oh so graceful matter satisfactory to you? My dear boy, that’s not how the screenplay was meant to develop.
And now I cant even remember kissing your lips, or your neck, your chest. Its all such a faint memory and I wonder if any of it really happened. I do recall your horse voice scolding me for biting you, but my dear boy, that’s just how it goes. I do recall your lack of calls, lack of time for me, lack of love and affection. You were drifting away from me, my dear boy, as Wilson the volleyball floated aimlessly away from Tom Hanks in Cast Away, leaving him broken and cold. You were my lifeboat, my getaway car, my escape goat. I was your scapegoat. I took the punches when you crashed your bloody car. I took the beating when you were cut from the team.
It was ok to be your girlfriend whilst you suffered, but once you claimed so-called victory over our god-forsaken school, I was nothing. Its terribly predictable, my dear boy, not to mention, incredibly conformist.
Now my heart left in pieces, which you refuse to return to me, I see the world in a different light. Like a soldier returning from a war in which my legs where blown off, I’m jaded. Lovers are ignorant to how miserable they really are.
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