Don’t do it. From my crazy “are we in goddamn New Jersey?” weekend, I’m gong to say: Don’t try to work it out with an ex. It’s not going to work. You were exes for a reason.
What happens is that tired old bullshit from last time resurfaces this time, but you don’t know it’s resurfaced. All the pent up hate and remorse from the last time, jumps up on your ass on a simple afternoon on the beach. One minute, you are happy as two stupid clams. Next minute, your ex is pulling out everything possible out of his ass to make you feel like shit. He may even set the shit up in advance, which I like to call the premeditated fuck you.
Only people who have been stewing over some shit you did or some shit you said will bust out a premeditated fuck you.
It happened to me. The best explanation I could get for his premeditated fuck you was: “That’s what you get for talking shit to me about other guys.”
Hmmm. Okay.
His premeditated fuck you was severe, what crazy people do, what people who secretly hate you do, what people who want to humiliate you in public do, what your ex will do when he wants to really fuck with you, etc, etc…
He made his point. This was his pay back for the other guys in my past/present life. Regardless, yawn. This was just like last time only amped up on crack cocaine.
In summary: Don’t reason with the unreasonable. Go out and find yourself some new crazy. Don’t waste your time revisiting some old crazy. No point in that. (Unless he’s a musician. Then, well… You can’t help revisiting that a few times. No one can really fault you for that.)
You might be wondering 1984? What?! Yes. I developed a little crush on Bill Murray when I was about six years old. Remember Ghost Busters? Ok. Well, I thought he was swell in that. Funny. Cute. Strong leading man.
Yup. And you know that bedroom scene with Sigourney Weaver and she’s all over him? Well, I was six so I really wasn’t sure what that was all about, but boy, did I want to know more about it.
Then, I grew up. I developed crushes on Keanu Reeves, Matt Damon, Jack White, Paul Walker… You know my roster. And then: “Lost in Translation” happened. I thought: Oh my. It’s Bill Murray again. And Scarlett Johansson is living out my dream.
So, yeah. I’m crushing on a sixty year old man. You talking shit?
It so happens, that Mr. Murray lives here in Charleston. Many of my friends have had Murray sightings. But, a couple of people I know made a trailer (It’s fake, but funny!) with him. I cried because how could people I know work with him and I was not there. Okay. Probably because I would try to distract him and bone him somehow. That is a good point.
I commend Barnfly Productions, Butcher Media, and all the other dope people involved for putting this funny little trailer together. I wish I would have thought of it myself. Applause. Hugs. (Ummm.. Pass my info on to Murray if and when you get a chance. Wink wink.)
I’m not usually a snooper. I don’t do it. But to each his or her own. I don’t look through dudes' phones, computers, pockets, drawers, wallets, etc., etc. I don’t do it because I don’t want it done to me. Not that my behavior will somehow affect what some guy I’m seeing behaves, but I like to function on karma. I cringe when a guy so much as hands me my phone. If a dude wants to look through my cell phone when I get up to go to the bathroom, he deserves the inadequacy he will feel when he finds what he finds. (Errrr. Umm.You know... Not that there’s anything there to be found.)
I was over at my ex (not really my ex because we were never together together but only kinda together)‘s apartment. I was using his bathroom and saw through the crack of the bathroom cabinet a black and bright pinkish thing.
All I could think was: That fucking asshole! I was pissed. I was irate! However, I did not open the cabinet to see what this black and pinkish thing actually was. I knew, goddammit. I knew what it was!
It’s some chick’s makeup bag. That fucking slut!
I finish up in the bathroom and climb in bed, but I say nothing. Not a word about the slut’s makeup bag. First of all, we are not together anymore and have, for the most part, been estranged from each other because if you know us, we are both crazy mentally dysfunctional people when we are together. We are either madly in love or desperately trying to kill each other. We are that bat shit cuckoo for cocoa puffs crazy about each other that we can move from love to hate in a matter of 15 seconds. Hence, this is why we were together but not together. We couldn’t keep a steady state of emotions for each other longer than two hours. True story. Go ask someone who had to hang out with us. -Those poor people.
Anyway, I get in bed and act like nothing happened. We have a nice pleasant evening and in the morning, I’m still quiet about the makeup bag.
But for the next week, I stew about the makeup bag. I imagine what the slut looks like and what kinds of things they do together. I envision walks on the beach, romantic bike rides at sunset, lovely brunches on Sunday mornings. I’m angry. I’m going to kill him. That asshole. That slut. I hope they are happy together. I hope they get married. I hope they have dozens of children. Dozens! So that her slutty uterus falls to her knees. (Mind you, I know that the chick is not really a slut. She’s probably really nice. It’s just that with him any girl that isn’t me is a dirty skank.)
By the time, I saw him again, I couldn’t hold in my anger. I let him have it. Of course, I really can’t say anything because we are not together, remember? But, I said: Fuck it. I tear him a new asshole about his little girlfriend and her stupid makeup bag. I ask him how long they’ve been together and how cozy their relationship must be since she leaves her things at his place. How cute. How fun. Hope you two burn in hell together.
He sat there in the usual way he sits there when I yell at him. He says, “Go look. Open the cabinet. It’s not a makeup bag.” He smiles. He is goddamn laughing!
I yell, “No! I don’t need to. I know what I saw.”
Then, I actually go the bathroom and open the cabinet.
It’s not a makeup bag. It’s a magazine. A car magazine with black and neon pink writing.
A car magazine?
That fucking asshole! Then I begin to rationalize how it’s his fault that I suffered the imagined tryst. But, when I get out of the bathroom, he’s still sitting there with that look on his face. He's still smiling. And then I remember this is why we were together but not together and will never really be together. He makes me crazy. It’s that kind of love where it’s too much, too intense that it can’t be functional. I adore him, but really detest him too, for reasons to be disclosed at a later date.
If in this one instance, I had snooped and had opened the cabinet to see what it was I could have avoided the entire fiasco.
So, I may revise my absolutely no snooping rule for the sake of my future guys and future ex’s (but not really my ex’s because we were never really together together.)
