A Breakup Tale in So Many Parts

Part 24& 25
Part 24: 31 days, 18 hours, 38 minutes since you left me…
I was able to articulate the "five kinds of crazy" to you.
They were:

1. Mental
   
2. Emotional
   
3. Physical
   
4. Social
   
5. Cognitional
   

Maybe you didn't quite understand what they were, but you understood them enough to hate them. They are what drove you away. I was working through them. I had hoped you would stay to see the fabulous finish... with costumes and everything... like a proud parent at the school play!
I continue to conquer them. It's kind of hard, because I don't have all of my memories and they pop up at the most inconveinent times, but I'm a pretty solid gal, I guess.
Today you picked up the rest of your things. I knew it was coming and I tried to listen to really tough songs on my Ipod on subway on the way home. I felt sort of sick, I wasn't looking forward to this sort of finality that awaited me, even though I hate you; even though you don't care much about me.
I walked in the door and the cats were out, which meant you had gone into the bedroom, which I had asked you not do. So, I was a little less anxious and more pissed.
All of you was gone.
So here I am, 220 pounds (you) and 22 pounds (me) lighter. I got my hair cut today and I look pretty darned fabbo.
Will I trust someone again?
O
Oh, shut the hell up.
Will I find someone who sees past the baggage?
Y
Once, again, kindly suck it.
Will I spend the rest of my life alone, die with long, unkempt grey hair, wearing a poncho and tons of turquoise jewelry, owning 18 cats, my house smelling like Friskies and shit, teeth stained by nicotine, remembered as that failed actress who taught acting classes with a cigarette dangling from her lips as she told young students that it "Comes from here", as she banged on her lined, fat chest, wheezing, and when they found her, her vagina hadn't been touched in so long, it looked like a peach pit and when they touched it, it sighed as if a the trapped spirit of some Ute shaman escaped with relief, collapsed into itself like a time laspsed photo of a decomposing ham and then it turned to dust?
My mind set is on empty... unleaded happy fuel is in shortage right now.
I would blame the Bush administration. But right now, I blame you, you dick.
Part 25: 32 Days, 15 hours, 23 minutes since you left me...
I'm listening to T.
Once, I tried to make you understand the brilliance and beauty of the transition from The Happiest Days of Our Lives" into "Another Brick In The Wall (Pt. 2)". But you didn't get it. I played it, like, three times. It really frustrated me that you didn't get it. To me, it's a masterpiece, like you view Magritte's "Castle In The Pyrenees", which I also appreciate. I tried to explain to you the i control and intricacy of John Bonham's footwork on the bass pedal during "The Immigrant Song". You could give a shit.
But I went with you to the Whitney Biennial. I HATE the Whitney Biennial.
O
I
Music has been so important in my life. Not just rock and roll, all types of of music. You and I exchanged so much useless and fun trivia about 80's bands. I adored that. Maybe the lack of rock and roll knowledge was a sign of your totally pussy package.
When I went to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, on a road trip to Chicago with my friend, I was so pissed that the only Led Zeppelin instrument they had was a John Paul Jones synthesizer. Sucks, right? They didn't even have one of Jimmy Page's dragon suits! Man!
I get a little butch around classic rock. A little Harley chick-ish. I'm not but a little ashamed.
I worry that you would have been concerned as to why they didn't have more of Boy George's wardrobe from the Kissing To Be Clever Tour. "When he was in his 'dreadlock phase'"...
*Sigh*
You hated when I called you "dude" or "man". Because you were neither?
What if I called you "sisssssssssssssssster la la"? Oh, that's just mean.
I find myself having to forgive you two to three times a week. That's my workout.
___________________________________________
I got a fabulous haircut:
Eat your heart out. Great hair and 22 pounds lighter.
But you won't be doing that. You probably don't want to eat a out.
I don't know who would.
That's a problem.
Here I am, supposedly this beautiful, sexy, attractive woman... and yet I can't imagine anyone who would want to lay their hands on me unless they're a chubby chaser or blind. This was there before you came along, even when I was thin, you just reinforced it.
Thank you very much, jackrag.
My Mother signed me up for Match.com, so I will "meet a nice man" and "Dr. Phil endorses it". Sweet, Southern Mama.
She gets me the "Buy 6 months, and if you don't find a month, we slap you in the face with a big, giant ham and give you 6 months free, you big loser, take the money you saved and get plastic surgery or go to Jenny Craig".
I filled out my profile. For body type, I had to list "Full Figured", I mean, that's what I am. I am "Curvy", but I'm "Full figured", too. I'm not "Average", unless you count the Midwest and Southern states, but not NYC, for God’s sake! I don't have "a few extra pounds", unless "a few" is, like 30. Noooooooooooo... I'm "Full Figured", like I've reached my intake.
People can either wink at you (now, if someone winked at me in a bar, I'd vomit in my mouth a little, so that was out), or they can email you.
So I get all of these matches! Awesome!!!! Handsome guys, too! WOW! But none of them are contacting me. And the matches are, like, 97%, 93%... so I start looking. We match on everything... but BODY TYPE. They are looking for "Slender, athletic, toned, average, a few extra pounds...." and it stops there. I email some of them, (in a nutshell), "Hey, I'm witty and great, but not so slender... " No response.
So, now, most of the emails I get are from guys who look like they have a touch of the Downs.
And even they probably would kick me off the short bus.
You must be thrilled.
Is it that I look like there's something off? Did you put bad mojo on me, man.... dude?
Do I look scared?
Because I am...
I don't want to get married. I don't want a "boyfriend". I just want to have an evening with somebody who doesn't have to wear a life vest in a hot tub or only use plastic utensils because of "the stabby incident". Someone who thinks I'm attractive and knows how to smooch, gets hard when it's called for, likes how my skin feels and doesn't mind that there are bumps in the road... and on me...
Someone who has a good time.
Maybe that's just me, huh? Maybe it's m who has to do all that for m first.
But they still don't let me use real knives and forks yet.
Damnitt!