Thursday, February 16, 2006

Last Words

“I don’t know. Fuck you.”

I’m not terribly proud of it, but these were the last words I ever said to E., my boyfriend of about 3 years, before I slammed down the receiver (cell phones are bad because they eliminate this highly satisfying practice of slamming). I don’t remember what the words were in response to. I yelled them, drunk, into a phone at about 2 in the morning. Several days before, I had found out that he had been cheating on me since we started dating, and had slept with about 10 other people during the time we were together. But you know what? I don’t believe that. I think it was more like 40 or 50 people. But it’s hard to tell, because he’s a really good liar, in addition to being a cokehead, a stoner, an alcoholic, and a fan of she-male porn. Not that there’s anything wrong with she-males. He was also incredibly attractive and funny and weird and sometimes I miss him. Lately I miss him.

About a week after this incident, I started dating this 22-year old drummer (I was 27). I had planned only to sleep with him for a few weeks, but three years later we somehow ended up getting married, and now a year later, we’re getting divorced.

I wish my last words to Mr. C were as exuberant as those yelled at E. nearly five years ago. When we went to our first session of therapy (there were a total of 2 sessions, as he was really dedicated to trying to make things work) I said in a really mean voice on my way out the door, “I don’t want to be your friend.” I wish those were the last words. The next (and last) time I saw him was at the last therapy appointment. I had, in my trunk, several garbage bags of the shit he was too clueless to remember to pack the day he moved out. And he had some of my stuff he had taken by accident on that day, which was one of the worst days of my life. We agreed to meet after the therapy appointment to exchange this crap. I told him to meet me in front of the parking ramp where my car was, and in true Choad fashion, he was like 20 minutes late. By the time he got there I wanted to kill him. Instead, we rode up the elevator together to my car and I stood and watched him struggle to get the ripped trash bags out of my trunk, a trunk that still had film canisters in it from when he and his girlfriend used my car all the time to have their little photo-affair. I noted that I needed to remove them immediately when I got home, and perhaps needed to anoint the entire car with sage, to clean out the remnants of their loser love (I did do this about a week later). After he got the bags out, he started to organize the stuff right there behind my car while I watched, because that’s the kind of selfish asshole he is.

“Uh, I’m going to go,” I said impatiently, knowing that if I were to back out then I would run him over. My last words. I got in my car and started it, and then backed up without even looking. I thought, “I’m going to run this motherfucker over,” but at the last minute I looked and he and his stuff had disappeared. I have no idea how he got out of there with all of that stuff so quickly. I felt a little sad…I was looking forward to seeing him scurry to not get hit. But then it was just me and my tainted car and my sad bag of stuff he had taken by accident, just random stuff he needed to get rid of so he would have nothing to remember me by, and I haven't seen him since.

2 Comments:

Blogger LCALeasure said...

shrew, this is so damn visceral.

9:24 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

I always get so caught up in your posts. I especially like the interspersement of the crushes on famous people with the past relationship stories and spleen anecdotes/updates.

1:12 PM  

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