Thursday, March 22, 2012


Ingredients for this My Time: an email account, sangria, a bitter heart pain, resolve.

Oh Honey, you know, I try to keep up with technology and other new kinds of passive aggressive communication, but really, let's get real. Email hurts. You've gotten them when someone should have called you, and you're so panicked when an ex-husband approaches you in public
but your face will never show it. good girl.
by tapping you twice on your shoulder pads like you're a stranger who dropped a Splenda packet from your Gucci bag

while you're trying to stuff a burrito in your face under a sun hat BECAUSE YOU HAVE SHAME that instead of telling him the alimony doesn't take back all those things he did, you throw the burrito and run out of the restaurant. Click click go your perfect heals in your mutilated feet. This is what your Dag did today when an ex flippantly approached her to speak about the ways that everything never happened. Oh, Honey. I threw my food, ran out the back door and walked around the long way of the restaurant so he wouldn't see my kempt rear end high-tailing it to snort calming air off my steering wheel. Had I not just come from my analyst, been sick, been recently robbed RODRIGO!, and completely life exhausted, I could have told him the words every elegant woman of class learns along with her first shoulder pads:

                                                                             Fuck No.
But I couldn't, and ashamed as I was--ha ha, I kid, I have no shame because I was raised with money--I still needed a way to tell him Fuck No. So I spend about 8 hours composing the perfect 5 line email. I mean, "perfect" may be a strong word, but so are: "I can't sleep with a woman and also meet her other needs," "I feel proud to know my limitations," and, my fav "you showed up at my house in a volatile state." I mean, do men know how medicated we are just so we can ignore half of the stupid things they say and receive half of the stupid things they hand us? I couldn't be volatile if I tried! Well, actually, nothing has made me feel as volatile as being called "volatile!" What fun the games men and women play with each other are! SO, I sent an email saying how I couldn't T-R-U-S-T him anymore. Boom! What every man cares about: your trust! Hilarious. Many of them can't even wipe properly, but they can inflict a precise pain like a prehistoric wasp. It was necessary to say, Honey, but oh, what an imperfect system email is. It's basically made for pre-first-sex and break-ups. The warm up and the rejection. It had to be done, but let me tell you, next time, oh next time, with a burrito in my left hand and a pointin' finger on my right, I'll let him have it. Whoever that "him" happens to be. And if I haven't passed out and died yet or you know, become blissfully happy. Well, I have just over 24 hours before I head to one of my villas in the Caribb'. There will surely be no email and a lot of island "time" to not think about all of this, and all the things we simultaneously must and must not say.

Champers on me if you fly your jet down to the islands, Honey!

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