“Gentle reminder, it’s not a walk of shame if you stop for brunch on the way” – the internet (so it must be true.)
Once upon a time you hooked up with a fuckboy. It happens, no judgements. And then there was a full moon, or Aries entered Mercury or maybe you’re horoscope told you someone from your past was going to come back into your life – romantically. And there he was again… the fuckboy. But this time, he was different, he took you out on a date… A REAL DATE, like out in public, with other people around (WHAT!?) And then that date turned into two and then three and then next thing you know his shit is in your house, as in permanently. How did this happen? Fast forward one fight, then two and then you break up with him… because he will always be a fuckboy (it’s in his DNA or he’s just an asshole, whatever) and then he leaves and you finally get your blessed 2nd toothbrush space back (like that space is for important people, as in not you).
A few months later you’re perusing the mall, minding your own damn business when you see him. And you try to run or hide or be someone else, but alas, lady luck is not on your side today. So you smile and wave and oh there she is, the skank of the week threading her arm through his. Cue awkward small talk and the silent desperation to be anywhere but here because his attempt at showcasing Brittney who looked like she just finished her shift on the pole is starting to seriously piss you off.
The next day your phone rings – a number you don’t recognize. After answering, you realize why you don’t answer calls from numbers you don’t know. Its him, he wants to know if you still have his black hoodie. Obviously not (LOL turns around in mirror admiring said black hoodie. It looks better on you anyways.) And then he says the words because his ego can’t take whatever bullshit he thinks he heard, “Seriously, it’s been like a year, I think it’s time you got over it. I’ve moved on, maybe you should too.” You bite your tongue against telling him about the multiple O’s from the man who just left your bed that morning, a foot taller, built like a god and trumped his pencil dick in every way possible.
Naturally you decide to be the bigger person. Maybe. Maybe not. Because how the hell else are you supposed to deal with Satan’s biological son? In the nicest way possible you tell him his only real promise at a relationship will be with someone who’s not actually sure if she wants a boyfriend or if she’s really just hungry and has high hopes for change. So thanks for the memories but you need to leave… like my life… like forever. Because sweetheart, I am SO over you.
Drink water, be kind, stay away from douchebags.