Dealing With The Aftermath

I was out at the bar last night (on a weeknight, I know! Who do I think I am?! A college student?!) and ran into a friend of my ex.

We started talking and as we sat down together at a table in the corner, she looked at me in all seriousness and asked, “So, are you ok?”

I thought maybe she heard about my massive PMS cramps or the fact that my recent mild-obsession with running had left me with some serious blisters on the bottom of my feet.

After all, the boy and I broke up months ago and – as anyone who knows the truth knows – I ended things with him; the thought that this is what she was referring to never crossed my mind.

“Yeah, I mean, the blisters make it a bitch to walk in these heels, but this Amstel Light is totally numbing the pain.”

Her uncomfortable giggle made me realize that my feet were not the focus of her sympathy. She mentioned something about the boy and how it had to sorta suck when he dumped me. And something about how I must be sad about it because I can’t seem to stop calling him, no matter how many times he ignores me and never calls me back.

Insert the sound of tires coming to a screeching halt.


I looked at her completely dumbfounded. She has to be joking, right? I mean, no one would just walk around making up such a ridiculous story knowing (in my small and gossipy town) that shit like that would get back to me?

Who is this kid? I thought dating an older guy meant an increase in maturity. Wrong! Not only did he attempt to steal my thunder during Operation Dump His Ass, but now he is wiping the nasty ground of Detroit with my name? I am not some pathetic and needy girl and that is exactly the picture he is painting for whoever he is telling this story to.

I was so angry I wanted to scream, walk over to his house and piss on his precious car (he took great pride in it and, frankly, it was UGLY). Then I realized that my red stiletto pumps were totally cute, but totally not made for such a long and arduous mission.

So, I took the high road – for the first time in my life. I decided to let that asshole tell people whatever he had to to make himself feel better. He clearly has low self-esteem (as he should, considering his skills in the bedroom) and a complex when it comes to women. I, on the other hand, don’t need to lie to make myself feel better…I simply need to vent the truth on a national website.

Breaking up is harder than I remember. And the repurcussions just keep on coming.

I thank God every day for my positive self-image, great personality, and totally sexy shoe collection to get me through it.

The Vibrator Of The Year Goes To…
The Vibrator Of The Year Goes To…
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