Day 309 Today is the Day

Today is the day. For what you may ask? Today is the day that I fully admit to myself that losing you wasn't really a loss.


Let's face it; you were a shitty "boyfriend" and shittier liar and arguably just a shitastic person in general... And that's kind of a huge spectrum. In retrospect, I was probably very lonely, absolutely terrified, and incredibly, stupidly insecure enough to think that you were the best I could get, that you were the best I would ever find in this world.


And it was, and is, complete and utter shit. And you know why? Because even if I spend the rest of my life alone, allowing my quite fertile eggs to never be fertilized by your numerously eager sperm; even if I allow each and every one of them to die off slowly one by one as each passing month moves on and eventually end up alone, bitter, childless and loveless, it will be, without a doubt, a 100, nay, 1,000,000, times greater than spending the rest of my existence thinking I missed out on you.


And do believe me when I say "you" much like I would address a tapeworm slowly exiting my anus.

Because, really, you were(are) a parasite. And not even one of those badass, symbiotic ones that do some good for all the trouble you're worth; you were(are) a motherfucking-parasite (yes, I do believe this is an actual breed), a leech, a vampire without the sparkle or sex-appeal (because you classify your "good-looking" phase/face with something I try not to stare at at cross-roads or redlights). Looking back, I realize that I saw your unattractiveness as a sign that you probably weren't a complete dick (damn you teen-movies for telling me lies about the awkward-yet-supposedly-emotionally-and-mentally-superior Seth Cohens of the world!!). Without a doubt, you were just another little prick whose existence persisted solely because someone else (read: me) was dumb enough to believe you were worth it.

Wasting my fire

And this comeback may have taken a while, but guess what it took me this damn long to figure out???


You weren't worth it. And you're still not worth me. And, while I can't pretend to predict your future value, much like prostitues and organs from third-world-countries, it won't fucking matter because I won't be buying. Why? Because I've given and given and practically dumped everything I've had (dignity and vagina included) at your doorstep for a mere inkling of a chance of a small possibility that hopefully at some point in some day you'll maybe- just maybe -think that I might be that one person you could spend the rest of your life with.


And really, those are waaay too many uncertain obscurities than I'm willing to put up (and/or out) with for a deadbeat who still doesn't know the difference between "your" and "you're." Seriously, you'd think that after 20+ years of existence you'd learn to use spellcheck... or a dictionary... or at least the fucking English language.


I once spewed about white flags and wanting to recapture supposedly-perfect moments in time. Well, today is the day I admit that I was lying to myself in a pathetic attempt to elevate you beyond the shitpot-caste you truly belong to. Those moments were perfectly retarded and one-sided and thus, null and void of the very perfection I've tried to impose on them in my mind. And those white flags I mentally debated on waving? Don't.fucking.matter. Because there was never a war; just you sitting in a double-wide reaching for your twelfth beer around your pot-belly. I was trying to win that? I was trying to win you?? (I repeat: anus-worm voice)


Yes, today is the mother fucking day I admit it: I made a mistake. Actually, I made a few mistakes:


-allowing myself to feel so low and worthless to the point of
-thinking that you were "it" for me and
-actually being devastated over losing a grenade like you while
-wishing you'd "find your way back" to me when I should've just cut that bridge, lit it on fire as it fell and poured myself a glass of wine while I watched it burn.

So yeah, it's Day 309 of my project, but this is Day 1 of My Personal Awesomeness, to be filled with Phineas and Ferb, Fringe, and Big Bang Theory episodes, knitting, smut novels, creepy babies, and gym sessions in front of buff men who can actually afford a gym membership.


It might not be over for Adele. But it sure as fuck is for me.