I blame John Lennon for the abject failure of modern American relationships.
(I know, I know, it’s practically blasphemous, www.city-data.com)
My generation especially has been brainwashed with the “all you need is love” idea, which I find personally reprehensible. Ok, ok, yes, I am pissed-off girl right now, and perhaps will be wary of anything with testicles for the next several months. But the whole myth that “love is all you need” is the biggest, most steaming-est swirl of donkey shit I have ever heard. Parker and I loved each other. A lot. But love? Solves nothing. It just made our break-up hurt even more.
Then there’s the song “Imagine,” which, in addition to being butchered by a contestant every year on American Idol, makes me think about the true meaning of the word. Imagining. Imagination.
As most of you could surmise, I am extremely imaginative. In fact, I would say that my imagination, in addition to being my best asset — as it lets me write like I do – is also my Achilles’ heel, especially right now.
(pretty much, news.hereisthecity.com)
I’ve already admitted to cyberspying on Parker a bit. I do it for one reason, and that’s purely masochistic, and that’s a topic for another blog altogether. But the truth is, there are no satisfactory results to said cyberspying. I can completely dream up a shit-filled situation whether he’s checked his Match subscription every day, or several times a day, or not in five days. (The latter is as of this evening.) My mind comes up with very probably improbable situations of what might be causing him to be online, or not to be online.
Yes, I am that pitiful. At least I admit it. I should be killed.
Right now, I am imagining that because he hasn’t checked it in five days, he’s found someone and simply doesn’t want to check his account anymore because he’s now fucking an Adriana Lima look-alike and can’t be bothered because he is busy falling in love with her, and she with him. Yes, they must have spent all weekend together. Naked. She was probably over at his place, admiring the pile of hair in the drain of his shower, and the beautiful aroma of a catbox not cleaned in 4 days. She undoubtedly loves the sheets on his bed that he probably hasn’t washed since we broke up. That’s right, skank-o-rama! Some of my DNA is probably still on there! Live it up, bitch!
(proof that life really, truly is unfair, www.sheknowsbest.com)
I mean, he’s been idle on IM for 20 hours. That’s not like him! That means he’s not at home, right, right — so where is he?? Did he spend the weekend banging some chick?????
(and yes, I totally stole that from Bridget Jones, so whatever.)
(taking a breath)
Now see, that’s my problem. Why doesn’t my mind automatically think about other (more highly probable) possibilities. Like, for instance, he’s trying to fix up his old condo to get it in livable condition so he can rent it out and not be paying 2 mortgages. Or he’s building himself another desk for his office at the new house. Or his parents came in for the weekend. Or he went to see them for the weekend. Or he’s been pulling up all the old dead shit in his garden and attempting to replant. And that he can’t spend the weekend with someone easily because he has two shit-eating dogs to feed and look after. Or that he hasn’t checked his account in five days because there’s no one really responding and he’s not nearing the pussy-quotient that he expected. All of *that* makes a helluva lot more sense than my sexcapade-filled episodes that I imagine.
WHY AM I NOT RELYING ON MY LOGIC INSTEAD? And why do I give a rat’s fat one in the first place?
(you’re giving it a complex, www.supanet.com)
My friend Elle has spent a great deal of time laughing at my scenarios. Oh, and hollering at me.
“That hairy Trekkie-watching fuck! Who would want him?! He’s fucking disgusting! He’ll never find someone who treated him as great as you did! Snap out of this bullshit! You’re so much better than this! He didn’t ever deserve you!” (Love you, Elle!)
I mean, it’s possible for him to have landed some gorgeous, perfect, wonderful woman, right? We all bought that Katherine Heigl willingly fawned over Seth Rogen in Knocked Up, right? (I didn’t, not really. I thought the casting was odd.) Three distinct differences between Seth and Parker, however: 1) Seth Rogen is Jewish; 2) Seth Rogen is blisteringly funny and 3) Seth Rogen probably has a housekeeper. And also? It’s Hollywood. So, I’m not even counting that as anything resembling my reality.
(yeah, right, www.hamaraphotos.com)
I have literally made myself physically ill wondering what Parker is doing. And that’s the problem. I just wonder. I make shit up. Instead of assuming the worst, I assume the best. Well, the best for him, at least. What I really would like is to know that he’s put on about as much weight as I’ve lost. I’d like to know that he’s cried a few times over me, all by himself. And that he’s struck out with some of these slags he’s met online. And that his friends haven’t really asked him to do very much, unlike my friends, who have gone above and beyond for me. And that he’s up to his beautiful eyes in financial straits because of the economy. And that he thinks of me much more than he would everadmit, maybe even to himself. And that most nights are spent alone, watching reruns of shit on the sci-fi channel, followed by obligatory masturbation and a restless sleep.
Oh, and yes. I am in therapy. FYI.
Why do we ascribe so much to our exes? Yes, he broke up with me, but if it means anything, I didn’t fight him on it. I don’t want him back, even though I miss him, because I was *miserable* and would only continue to be. By the end, I felt dead and empty because I realized that I was with a man who could never give me enough: not enough affection, respect, love, compassion, interest or understanding. And likewise, he was pissed with me because I am a Republican.
(what? so? and no, I don’t *always* agree with him, www.thebrighamgalleries.com)
I mean, I’ve been in such anxiety (or as my Russian shrink used to call it, ain-sigh-ity) in the past 5 days that I ate a third of a pint of Ben & Jerry’s today. DAMMIT! I am back to low-carb tomorrow, but still. I have an old bottle of xanax that I save for emergencies (like when Parker changes his relationship status on myspace) that I instead have been taking just to keep my cool. I’ve slept all weekend because I don’t know what else to do.
For a lot of you, this is probably the point where you’re screaming at the screen like your favorite team is losing or something. Like, “Get the ball, get the ball!” Except for you’re yelling at me. “Get over this son-of-a-bitch! He’s not worth it! Who cares what he’s doing?”
My friends, (ha ha, McCain) I wish this were the case. I am working toward that being the case. I am reading self-help books. Vodka’s nice. I’ve used a relaxation CD. My friends are such champs — they always call or take me out somewhere. You know, something that requires me to put on make-up that day. It’s great.
It’s like after a break-up, your ex has all these super powers. At least, in your mind. And you know and admit (cerebrally, at least) how irrational and ridiculous it sounds. They’re off doing big and important and romantic things. They’re living the high life. They’re going to parties and getting in shape and got a raise at their job, won the lotto and are hosting Saturday Night Live this season. I mean, unless you just broke up with Michael Phelps, I don’t see how this is applicable.
(HELLO. and look how hairless he is. wow, some unknown website.)
Why? Why now would Parker be any of this without me? I’d like to think that I brought out the best in him, because I encouraged him and loved him and no woman had ever done that before. I am pretty sure that I will be harder to replace than he or I think.
I’m going to make a concerted effort to stop imagining. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that Parker’s not sitting around imagining what I’m doing. He probably knows, because he knows me pretty well. He knows that I am crying and not dealing well and crying and worrying and crying. Ideally, I’d like to get to a point where not only am I not dreaming up shit about him and his life, but that I just don’t care.
It’s how I feel about all my other exes. Honestly, I’m on good terms with all of them. I’d go to their weddings and buy them a nice blender and wish them well. That’s how I like to keep things. Sometimes it takes me longer than I’d like to get to that place, but that place is always where I want to end up. And although I can’t imagine it now, in any way, in any corner of my still-broken heart, I hope that someday, I reach that point with Parker, too.
Not that he’d know what to do with a blender. And he’d probably break it anyway after the first few uses.
But you know what I mean.