A Breakup Tale in So Many Parts

Part 1: 2 Days, 20 Hours, 8 Minutes Since You Left Me…
London, January, 2006

It's been 2 days, 20 hours and 8 minutes since you left me.
These were our last words:
Me: What do you want?
You: I want the last ten years of my life back.
In retrospect, I should have asked, "Are we secretly being taped by The Bold and the Beautiful? I am being “Punk'd”? Is this a Telemundo soap? Donde está la cámara fotográfica?"

Today I had therapy again. It's the second time since you left me. I told my therapist that I discovered that on your business trip to San Francisco, you asked the host to get you "laid" and proceeded to flirt your way through the city in front of your (and my) colleagues. You explained to her that we hadn't had sex in three years. Well, that's a lie, it's was actually four, darling. And you told her it was because I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. That's a lie, too. I mean, I do. But we haven't has sex because you couldn't keep it up. You have had erectile problems since you were in college. You neglected to mention that.
I was sickened. I sent you an email calling you a "heinous and loathsome human being" for planting that rumor seed in a community of which I am a part. My issues were not to blame for our lack of sex, your Play Doh half mast flagpole was. Not to mention "Viagra makes my heart race... gives me anxiety". No, that was your big, fat gut having to work too hard and your heart trying to keep up, you lazy wimp.
Be a man.
So now I wasn't so sad. I was turning into an angry little beaver.
As I continued rapidly packing your things, I came across the booklet you made me for my birthday last October, "The Parade of Cuteness". Goddamn you. The cover was all of these little red bunnies holding flags that you had drawn. Inside were pages of pugs. Each pug on each page wore a different costume that you had drawn around them with a colored pencil. The jester said "I'm just a fool in love with you".
And I started to cry. Because a little over 2 days, 20 hours and 20 minutes ago, you told me you weren't in love with me anymore and you didn't know for how long. That when you “acted” like you were in love with me; you were “trying”. So was this reality, this book? Were you, then, a fool in love with me? Because before you left you told me you weren't in love with me and hadn't been for some time. Was it before or after you wrote this card? I want to know when you stopped trying while I kept working.
You're a filthy f’in liar, just like Blaine in Pretty in Pink and now I don't know who I'm going to the prom with.
"What about the prom, Blaine? What about the prom?" Except it's, "What about our marriage, Blaine?" Oh, but you said that night, "I never wanted to get married".
Thank God I had those shackles and that cattle prod to get you to the courthouse so I could force the choices out of you and make you marry me.
Today I had to work for the first time since you left me. I had my brave face on, cracking jokes because that's my job, to be funny on television. When I got into makeup, I asked the makeup artist to close the door. I started to cry and I told her that you had left me. Because I love you so much. Because I miss you so much. Because I gave my life to you and trusted you and I hate you.
At the beginning of the shoot, I made jokes about you're leaving, making everyone laugh. Ironic, sardonic, bitter humor that was like Alien spitfire, burning holes into the floor. As long as they laughed and I didn't cry, I was fine.
Today I went to an audition for Ocean Spray Cranberry Juice where I had to pretend to dance in a Cranberry bog and be happy.

When I got home, the phone rang and it was your work number. What in the world do you want? Leave me alone. I have sent you numerous emails telling you how much you hurt me. I boxed up most of your shit in the course of one day. I sent you flowers on Wednesday, before I knew you were a slimy (almost) cheater, with (oh, wait for it) a teddy bear wrapped around the vase. I cry on the subway. I eat very little right now. I talk to the kitties and I say, "Do we miss Daddy? Nooooooo!"

I haven't been on a date since college. What am I going to do? Buy skinny jeans and go to bars? Wait a year until I’m “whole” again and almost 40?!!?
I finally start getting used to the fact that I am utterly, utterly alone in the world and will end up the fat cat lady and you CALL ME?
Leave off!
You don't understand that just the Caller ID confuses me....
Today you called me and I don't know what it means.