A Breakup Tale In So Many Parts

Parts 31 & 32
Part 31: 37 days, 21 hours, 50 minutes after you left me...
I have tried to take a vow that I will never let people shit all over me anymore.
Even after I have become so strong after you shit all over me and refuse to take your bullshit anymore, what do I do?
I let people shit all over me.
What in the hell is wrong with me? Am I the world's toilet? Am I just going to keep allowing people into my life that take and take from me and then throw me to the ground when it's my turn to kvetch?
I hate people.
You wonderded why I didn't like to be social. It's because people let me down. They always have. They are never fully present for me. Their ear is always slightly bent to another angle. Their arms don't entirely encirlcle me. Their eyes dart away when I speak to them.
Huh? What's that?
I don't command attention and respect. It must be built into me. It must have been laid into me, no pun intended, when all that crap happened to me throughout my childhood.
They hung a sign on me: WELCOME.
A place to wipe your feet, have a rest and then move the fuck on.
Don't mind that girl in the corner, she can take care of herself.
Oh, and she can take care of all of you, too.

Part 32: 38 days, 12 hours, 11 minutes since you left me...

I am starting to feel a sense of relief since you've gone.
I started this joke when we were together. You used to ask me, "Why do you do this?" or "Why do you do that?" You know, like, "Why do you leave your socks on the floor in front of the couch?" "Why do you put your diet soda bottle in the living room trash instead of going into the kitchen and putting into the recycling bag?"
The long answer was, "I'm going to do it when I get up to go into the other room, asshole."
But I got tired of using that answer, so I came up with the answer that I thought you wanted to hear; the response that would become my stock answer thereon in:
"Because I hate you."
I mean, why else would I do it? Idiot.
You were needling me. So screw you.
Why? Screw you, that's why.
It's a relief not to have to answer your insipid questions about why I do what I do when I do it.
It's a relief that you don't come in and take a poop while I'm trying to have a serene, candlelit bubble bath (that's right). Because then you'd have to leave the door open to air out your "what the hell did he eat" God-awful smell devouring my jasmine/orchid aroma like the Blob ate teenagers in the film of the same name!
It's a relief to not have to cook for you because you don't know how, to have to plan menus for your lunch and dinner, to have to order from Fresh Direct for the week's groceries, to look at those hideous Italian/banana hammock/San Tropez underwear and secretly toss them and replace them with real man underwear that are briefs.
It's a relief to not watch you get hypnotized by the television, so much that you didn't hear me talk to you sometimes, or you'd be late for work, because you were watching "Battlestar Galactica" on the Tivo.
It's a relief not to watch you walk around naked, wanting to scold you and yell at you, hissing and shouting, "You know what? Put that thing away! I don't want to see it if it's not working." It's like putting your old Camero up on blocks in the front yard. You keep saying your "gonna fix it, gonna fix it". At first, it's all shiny and pretty, but, as the years go by, it gets rustier and rustier and you're not buying parts for it anymore and, let's face it, you're never gonna fix that fucking Camero so just cover it with a tarp so I don't have to look at the broken piece of shit anymore!!
It's all a relief.
It's the biggest Alka Seltzer on the planet.
Plop frigging Plop. Fizz a doodle Fizz.