I wrote this several months ago and I’ve decided to share it now. I’m not completely sure why I did not post this, but sharing is caring, after all.
Every morning I wake up to hungry cats and a stuffy bedroom. Cat hair usually cover my sheets, as well as my body. The floor is partially covered with dirty clothes, but I don’t mind because I’m somewhat of a mess myself. As I tip toe around the garments and make my way through the living room and into my kitchen I find my neighbor awaiting my company; my ex boyfriend. Everyday is like re-enacting a break up.
I will call him Mister Man for the sake of privacy. I dated Mister Man for four years. A week before my 18th birthday I packed all my belongings into a collapsible hamper and into the trunk of my ’97 Monte Carlo to live with Mister Man. My parents spent a large portion of my college savings on a cement hole. Such a hole is usually known as a pool, but to me it was a poor excuse to exhibit upper middle class wealth. Once turmoil ensued within my household, I decided it’d be best to move in with Mister Man after only a short period of dating. I will not trace back our entire relationship, but I’m sure you can fill in the blanks.
I sign a lease, move in and proceed to purchase books and other items couples fill their love nest with..rice cookers, desk, bed(s), wall art. Now here’s where it gets fun. We break up, I know right? I probably fucked up more than he did, but don’t worry he managed to make me equally miserable.
Once, he became upset over pancakes. Yes, pancakes…the breakfast food. He had made pancakes one Sunday morning and after consuming a few bites I told him that his pancakes were amazing and that these particular pancakes were probably the best he has ever made. Mister Man’s face quickly turned sour and horrendously disgruntled, as though I told him I fed the cats bleach. “These are instant pancakes”, he retorts.
Shortly after his response he begins to tell me that I am simply uncultured and that I do not possess a refined tongue. Because as we all know the pancake is a delicatessen of only the finest individuals, such morsels never touch the tongues of simpleton. What the fuck was I thinking?
I am painting a rather negative portrait of him. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve done my fair share of erratic and unexplainable behavior. I’ve thrown lamps to the floor, locked him out of the apartment, thrown shit out of the window, and destroyed the remote control. I am just as bad if not worse.
So how exactly does this particular living situation work? It doesn’t.
But, what exactly do you do when you’ve built an entire life around one person? Everything you’ve ever done was for one person. The furniture you purchased, the meals you attempted to cook, and the phone calls you made to inform him of your whereabouts. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. How to make all the pieces fit again with one missing piece, and if that missing piece is at all vital or one that can be done without and look just fine matted and framed.