I used to sit around crying.
Not anymore.
I was treated to yet another parade of here's-every-person-I-like-that's-not-you. On the last day of my spring break, no less. It was precious, and this time I couldn't leave because he drove me to our little get together. So I sat there for an hour and a half, rubbing bruises into the palms of my hands and trying not to tell her to her face what an idiot she sounded like. On top of that, I smelled like a damn chimney because he and she were partaking in the sacred pastime of smoking around an asthmatic person. The asthmatic person was me, of course, so it was fun.
After this lovely escapade, the ride to his house was excruciating. He kept asking me if something was wrong and if I was okay. The fact that he had to ask only further solidified my newfound idea that he truly was a dumb ass and not worth my time for reals. He knew why I was upset and I knew he knew, but he was too much of a pussy to tell me straight that he knew what was wrong. I was pouting, I'll admit. I knew this was going to happen because he's been given numerous chances to pursue a relationship with me and had chosen to abstain. So he should have slapped me upside my fool head and told me there was nothing there. But he let me choke myself on the rope of hope he gave me. He didn't do anything, just let me believe a lie. And didn't see anything wrong with it. That's when I decided to stop it once and for all.
We said goodbye briefly and awkwardly. His new slut was waiting less than ten feet away, ready to go inside with him. Oh, did I mention why I call her his slut? No? Well it's because a part of the conversation we had in that hellhole of a restaurant was about how much they had been having sex and all the hickeys she left on his body. That was probably my favorite part of the conversation. Anyway, we said goodbye. He gave me one final hug and I let myself smell his amazing cologne one more time, knowing it would forever remind me of him. He desperately asked me to text him when I got home, sensing my withdrawl. I, being the sap I am, said yes to keep him from feeling any pain when he was so obviously getting ready to spend the night with his slut. But I didn't mean it, and I didn't text him when I got home. In fact, I haven't texted him since.
It's time to focus on how I can get over him. Because I'm done with waiting, but that doesn't mean I don't want him anymore. I still do, and frequently ponder whether or not I really want to sever my contact with him until I get my shit together. The answer is always the same though. I'm not going back to being his friend until it's all I want from him. I'm not going to destroy myself anymore for him.
So it's with a light heart that I now turn to the man who has captured my interest. The one who likes to read and is actually me in male form. It's time to give him a chance, and if nothing comes of it we'll at least be good friends. I put him on hold foolishly because of new information that came to light. But that information is no longer relevant, so I'm closing that book and opening a new one with a fresh, blank page that smells like the really good books do. You know, like paper and not the chemicals they treat it with now. That smell that is only found in the older books. It's time to write a new story, this time with a happy ending.
I feel the need to point out that this is all from my point of view. I don't know who's reading this, but please don't take this as fact. It is fact in my opinion, but there is always another side to a story and unfortunately the only person who knows it is the one I'm writing about. So keep in mind that this is all me, no one else.
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