He’s sprinkled through my life like confetti, but not the pretty kind. There’s nothing pretty about this confetti; it’s the cheap stuff they put on tables at wedding receptions being held in bars or church basements. It’s the stuff you have to vacuum three times; small, like glitter. It burrows in the carpet and on your clothing and just when you think it’s gone, someone says, “You have something on your cheek.” That kind.
My passcode lock is 847333. It spells THREE with one more for good measure. It’s been that way for almost four years. He played NIN on the jukebox the first time we met outside of work. Up until 2 weeks ago, my gmail password was ‘Closer0427’ as well as Facebook and Instagram and Outlook and various other professional applications. I deleted his app. I no longer check to see if he landed safely or when he’s taking off again.
“Hi” was 6 months ago. “Hi” was before he decided to pretend I don’t exist. “Hi” was the last time he said he wanted to talk then promptly disappeared. “Hi” was back when I thought he was a real human person with feelings or at least some fucking manners.
“High? Are you? It’s a question. Are you fucking high? You have got be high out of your goddamned mind if you think a fucking cartoon is going help your situation. I don’t want a photo of your breakfast. Stop sending memes and for Christ’s sake please retire ‘Goodnight Beautiful 😘💤💤💤’ It’s not a thing anymore. And even though it’s completely allowed, I don’t want your limited grasp of the English language popping up on my phone when I’m trying to give my undivided attention to someone who actually deserves it. It’s rude.”
That’s what I should’ve said, but I can’t. I can’t be mean just for the sake of being mean. Instead, I ignored him for 16 hours and sent this.
And guess what? Nothing. I wish I could say I was shocked, but he just doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know how to be a person. He is a walking sound bite with zero substance. He’s either “meh” or “grrr” or a cartoon. The last 6 months have just proven my original theory, Three is a pussy. He is a coward. He is Peter Pan and he is in no danger of ever growing up. I would like to believe he’s emotionally aware and able to feel empathy and he decided to do the right thing and leave it alone for my sake, but I’d also like to believe in magic and Santa Claus. No, he’ll stay away for a few weeks and then pop back in right about the time I start to feel better about this time.
It’s fascinating, really. How can someone be so terrified of being real? I saw glimpses, slivers of a real human person over the years, but not enough to matter. And his ego. Holy mother of Christ! This guy! He truly believes his own bullshit. It would be impressive were it not for the fact that I believed it too. No, he’ll go back to the drawing board and start at the top of his list. He’ll come back to my name when he thinks it’s safe to avoid a real conversation and when, in his convoluted skull, I miss him so much that I will have no choice but to cave.
He has got to be fucking high.
Okay, Kids. This is how you end it with a fuckboy.