Seeing an Ex

When you break up with me, I like to think you cease to exist. It’s not like I want you to die or anything (I swear, I don’t) but it would be nice if we didn’t have to share the planet let alone this tiny city.

I was tipsy when I passed you on the street last night, and you caught me completely off guard. You were smiling, relaxed, enjoying the company of the girl you were obviously on a date with and it felt offensive and unfair and insulting.

I get that we weren’t really a couple. I get that we had virtually nothing in common. And I certainly understand that I am belaboring a point here and clearly have spent far more time analyzing our non-relationship than is appropriate for the quantity and quality of time we spent together but aghhhh.

Without you, I’m so bored I’ve resurrected all of my drawsomething games. I’m cooking elaborate four course dinners for myself. I’m making one-woman acoustic music videos personalized for each of my non-DC friends.

I have TOO much time on my hands and it’s pathetic. I mean, I guess I’m doing things I like to do, and I’m obviously improving my skills in the kitchen, but it seems like I’m just biding my time until I can fill it with someone else. You might have found ways to occupy yourself – as you made evident on your annoyingly adorable dinner date – but I don’t want to witness how you spend your time now that it’s not being spent with me.

I’d really like you to move so I don’t ever have to think about you again. K, thanks, bye.

I'm Stupid When I'm Single

I’ve never really been good at acting like a normal, functioning adult when I’m boyfriend-less, but lately, let me just say - UGHH I HATE SINGLE ME.

Single me does stupid stuff for attention. Single me wants every weekend night to become an awesome story, or a better-than-average blog post, or a fogged over memory of epic-ness. Single me encourages my friends to booty call randos they don’t really like just so I can live vicariously through their drunken, horned-up exploits. It’s not that single me can’t have sexploits of her own, but single me has to be careful. Single me doesn’t want to get a reputation or anything.

Single me wakes up with a hangover at 2 pm with an entire Sunday gone and a craving for Shake Shack that borders on desperation. Single me looks like a hot mess after a night of partying and passing out in my bed with a made-up face and lips swollen from making out with someone I don’t remember. Ok, confession – I just don’t want to remember. Single me prays to black out and misremember a night but usually, thanks to an ever-climbing alcohol tolerance, single me’s adventures just get blurry around the edges – like an instagrammed snapshot of the evening. Only worse.

Single me awakes to an iphone crammed with texts from worried friends – did you get home ok? How did your night end up? I'm fine guys. I'm always fine. Single me looks at the old family pictures on her bedroom wall shamefully, wondering if she’s dishonored the lineage. Single me shuffles blearily into a kitchen of pregamed chaos. Limes and sticky solo cups lining the counters and chairs in disarray. Single me drunk-eats leftovers at 3 am if she doesn’t make a stop at jumbo slice first. Single me eats jumbo slice. Although, come to think of it, non-single me eats jumbo slice from time to time too.

Single me is the worst version of me. She’s the one who drunk dials ex-boyfriends in the middle of the night just to hear a familiar voice even if she regrets it the next day. She’s the one who thoughtlessly gives her parents cause for concern. She’s the one who favors reckless decisions over rational ones.

So, despite the outrageous amounts of fun that single me has, it is certainly time to become non-single me. I can’t take much more of this.