Part A: Let me start out by telling you what I ate for lunch today: a can of refried beans mixed with some Old El Paso taco seasoning. I tried to open the can with a can opener which kept catching on the kinked edges of the can so eventually I had to pry open the metal lid with a fork, and bean juice flew everywhere which would have mattered more had I not been wearing a shirt that I had already used to wipe my fingers on from the Asian pear I ate for breakfast. It’s the little things that count.
Part B: Last night my boyfriend of three weeks dumped me. He had asked me to be his girlfriend after date three and insisted multiple times that we head to the courthouse and seal the deal already. I was smitten but after two weeks I felt him pulling away and no I can’t give you concrete examples because his text messages were full of exclamation points, have a great days, and looking forward to seeing yous. I felt it in my gut but everyone told me I was overthinking it, and I told myself I was neurotic and popped another klonopin to try and ease my jangled nerves. And then there we were: ordering dinner at a restaurant called RJ Grunts—RJ Grunts for god’s sake, could it be any more perfect?—and planning on going to see the zoo lights, the ultimate romantic activity for couples who want to show the world, World, here we are, behold us holding hands and drinking hot chocolates spiked with peppermint Schnapps while we look at each other as if for the first time. Meanwhile, at RJ Grunts, he looked at me like he did not want to see me ever again, though he used different words than that. I think we should slow down, he said. You’re the one who moved fast, I said. I know, he said. Had that accusation been leveled toward a girl on the receiving end of a breakup, an apology would have ensued. Other stuff was said. His order of vegetarian chili and mine of French onion soup arrived. More stuff was said. The particulars are not important because they are more or less always the same.
Here’s what I say to you ex-boyfs: You don’t know what you want but you have some semblance of an idea about what you’re supposed to want so you pursue it without any thought to how it might affect another person. It’s called being selfish. It’s called being a manchild. It’s called, It’s over. I did not have one bite of soup but I did push around the coagulated cheese in the bowl while I tried to keep it together. I’m proud to say I did not cry. I’m not proud to say I did not reveal how angry I was, but rather tried to ask about his feelings. He seemed to have none. I don’t want to be a bad guy, he said. Tough shit, I thought, but was too lame to say. Instead: what do you want me to say? He shrugged. THIS IS YOUR BREAKUP SCENE BUDDY, I screamed (but sadly only in my head). More prodding from me: if you could do whatever you wanted without worrying about me, what would it be? No answer. Would it be to go right now? And finally: yes. So after all my hard work and heavy conversational lifting, he paid the check and left. Then I cried. And was offered ice cream on the house which I politely declined.
Part C: Back to today. Yes, I am sad. Not because of who he was but because of how I was. You get to act like an asshole? Then I get to act commensurate to that. An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind though, right? Take the higher road and all that. No thanky. I’m done. I get to be pissed, I get to be rude. You treated me with little to no regard and I coddled you because I’m a girl and you’re a man and that’s how it generally goes. I won’t do it anymore. And what does Part A have to do with Part C, you ask? I’ll eat like a hobo, I’ll spill my beans, I’ll wipe my hands on whatever I damn well feel like. And I won’t feel weird or sorry or guilty about it either.
But honey, you’ll never attract a beau that way!
Oh. Fucking. Well.