A Breakup Tale In So Many Parts

Parts 39, 40, 41 & 42
Part 39: 45 days, 12 hours, 0 minutes since you left me...
I just wanted to say how glad I am that people are reading this, not just because it shows that you're an asshole.
PS: You ARE an asshole.
It's inspiring a lot of folks and some folks are feeling not so alone and this sentence sounds a little too Arlo Guthrie for my doggone sensibilities.
I always wanted to put my own wounded and healing shit out there for anyone who needed a stitch for their wounded and healing shit... for a laugh and a cry.
So, that makes me grateful today.

Part 40: 46 days, 8 hours, 2 minutes since you left me...
Sometimes, in the morning, I get a little down.
I get a little down because I'm scrimping and saving. I'm eating mostly a lot of PB&J on rye so I can save up to afford an attorney, which will cost me around $1500.00 all totaled.
The cats cost me about $160.00/month, my choice, I know... therapy, travel, insurance... just everything, and I feel like you're just out there, having your "freedom" for the first time.
Yes, I know, I have my freedom, too. But it feels more limited. You're not paying utility bills or insurance rates. You have less responsibility, 'cause you're couch surfing. There's not a landlord breathing down your neck.
And, in part, you wouldn't be as well known around the country if I hadn't earned enough dough in those years to allow you the freedom to take off work and go to festivals to promote yourself as a teacher and director. I helped you along. And now, you feel free of me.
Oh, lucky you!
Yesterday, I had to spend fifteen minutes deciding whether I could afford a new hairdryer at $24.99 with 20% off.
Were we in the Alps, and I were called Yan, and I had a goat, you, my dear, would be getting it.
Part 41: 46 days, 21 hours, 30 minutes since you left me...
I might (and I stress m -- this is mighty might might might) have a date this weekend.
With a boy.
Huh.
I don't know what to wear.
I don't know what to do.
A real boy. Like Pinocchio turned into.
Um....
It's not like riding a bike, because the other bikes are newer, faster, thinner, younger... hotter... giggly and hair flippy.
You were easy. You just were. Easy. I don't know why. Was I assertive and aggressive and you were pliable and a pussy? I just know you were easy.
A real man. Not at all a boy, really. A real tall man. And awfully cute, too. Where does that leave me? When do I let him know about the crazy? When does he understand that it's all badges and battle scars, not barbed wire and fences?
Shut up. It's only a maybe date, for fuck's sake.
I have confidence. Heh.
I just have to remember that.


Part 42: 47 days, 9 hours, 31 minutes since you left me...
I fear you're the best and last I will get.
And what does that say?
A fifty year old woman was found dead in her apartment today. She was an acting teacher who had given up on her career as a writer, comedian and actress in the late 2010's, after she gained all of her 40 pound weight-loss BACK.
She was known for smoking 3 packs a day of American Spirit cigarettes and sleeping with young delivery trucks drivers who spoke little English, however, she hadn't been fucked in ten years.
The woman was surround by 18 cats, four of which had eaten off half of her weathered face.
Reports state she was dressed in a poncho and wore 30 pounds of turquoise jewelry.
Forensics specialists noted her vagina looked like a peach pit and hissed, then turned to dust when it was touched. The ghost of an Ute Indian Shaman's spirit rose from the dust, thanking the room for "freeing" it from "that hell" and flew away.
There will be no funeral, because only one person knows who she is, and that person lives in a dumpster.
----AP Newswire