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.)
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