A Breakup Tale in So Many Parts

Part 3: 4 days, 13 hours, 39 minutes since you left me
I'm glad most of your shit is boxed up and put away.
But I don't want you or anyone else to come and get it. I don't want it gone forever. Just live with whatever you have: your plaid shorts, your mandals, your Old Navy Khakis and my Samsonite luggage. It lets me know that your things are still here. So when I get mad I can trash them and when I get sad I can sleep with them.

Today I revisited the Lavalife site, hoping it would spark some passion in me, that I would really want to get laid. Nope. You broke my 'gina, you son of a bitch. You froze it up. I went on there to just see what it's like out there now in date land. Match.com costs too much moola. Lavalife is cheap... and it shows. It's the Paris Hilton of dating sites. This one is broken down into "Dating", "Relationship" and "Intimate". Guess which box (no pun intended) is usually high in numbers? And (surprise) most guys "like oral"... Who Knew?!!?
There's this guy, Jonnie123 (I know). He owns a catering company (can't be real). His pictures are professionally shot (come on). He's really handsome... he wants to have drinks... he gives me his cell... okay, this is a joke, I think. This is a prank on the chubby chick. I am not so attractive that this hunk o' beef wants to meet me for a cocktail (pun intended) and slip away to some semi-classy hotel for not-classy random safe sex that lasts for more than fifteen minutes, am I? Because I don't feel all that attractive and I wonder why that--
OHMYGAWD-UH-USONOFABITCH

This is what years of a celibate marriage and lying snake of a husband has done to me: I won't let gorgeous Jonnie123 “do” me gloriously for hours! And he likes "extended foreplay, touching, and being undressed slowly"... he's looking for a partner who " has a sense of humor, always practices safe sex, will let me take control". Am I crazy?
Or am I not ready because it's only been 4 days, 14 hours, 14 minutes since you left me?
I hate myself. It's been 4 f’ing days, 5 hours and 41 minutes, for grub’s sake. Why can't I just move on? I'm a strong, independent woman with a chef who owns a catering company (on a sleazy website who's picture is probably from some ad for Kohl bath fixtures and he's going to be at some hotel room with his friends ready to dump a bucket of pig's blood on me ala Carrie when I get there and my Mom's voice will ring in my head "They're all gonna laugh at you, they're all gonna laugh at you!") wanting to meet me on Monday for drinks and "extended foreplay"... I've been sober for ten years, survived multiple molestations, depression, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, five kinds of crazy, leg waxing... what the hell is up with me?
I feel like a wreck. GodDAMNITT.
Here's a little light on the whole thing: my acid reflux is gone and so is my heartburn. You literally made me sick. I hope your throat burns from acidic guilt.
And I wish you were here.
I get these realizations sometimes that you're gone gone and I'm really alone.
Today, the phone calls and emails from friends stopped coming. I got one call from a friend. After a while, people don't check up on you as much. They figure I'm doing better every day. After ten years of a relationship, six of them married... most of them truly believing that you and I were going to spend our lives together, I am not doing better every day.
Did it have to be skinny jeans that came back in style when I’m back on the market? Couldn't it have been sweatpants that hide my big ol' belly and tunics that are sparkly? I can handle that fashion statement just fine. You get to do whatever you want, because you're a guy. Look at Hefner, Michael Douglas, Mickey Rooney. Oh, except screw, you can't screw.
Oh God, I wish they made home lipo kits.
There are stories about people being drugged and having their kidneys harvested by organ thieves. Why can't these guys harvest some fat? Are you telling me no one needs some body fat? Like for greasing up those luge guys in the Olympics or for the pig catching contest in some county fair in Podunk, USA? C'mon! Take it, it's yours, harvesters!
That's why you left; my sense of humor is too dark, too gross, too unladylike. You used to tell people I had no boundaries. I did. I just left them at home sometimes.
On your myspace profile, there's a picture of us and the caption reads, "Me and my more talented wife". Wow. What does that tell you? Competitive, much?
Shhhh... Come here... some a little closer... I want to tell you something...
Sometimes, I let you win.
I took you off my myspace because you're not my friend. And I don't want to see when you change your profile from "married". And I like your picture.
I miss and hate you. "The Amazing Race" is on soon. This is the first time I'll watch it without you. My tummy hurts to write that, to think that. My tummy just hurts.
Shhhh... Come here... some a little closer... I want to tell you something...
I let you win because I loved you.