The Advantages of Being Dumped Over the Phone at 2 am
Writing this on Christmas Eve feels peculiar, almost unsettling. Not unsettling in a frightening sense, but more of a peculiar worry, as if the news put out a warning concerning a toddler out for revenge- there’s nothing to worry about but I won’t sleep quite as soundly understanding the implications of such a thing.
A Pabst Blue Ribbon and Criminal Minds tonight, followed by a morning of gift giving and Kenny G. Christmas music while my father takes enough pictures to consume the hard drive of a NASA computer which lies ahead. And in my life’s rear view mirror, a perky nineteen year old blonde with big tits who would only be the little spoon- and to be honest, I didn’t know that much more about her. I think that’s why I get the impression I shouldn’t feel so bad about the split we just went through, but she was my nineteen year old blonde with big boobs so I’m going to be salty and despondent about it.
I’ve had roughly a week of recovery time, but I filled most of it with deathmatch wrestling videos on Youtube and Southern Comfort. I don’t feel that’s proper etiquite for mourning a breakup, if that’s what you’d like to call it, but that’s not the only reason I feel I should have recovered. You see friends, I have a parylizing fear of commitment. I don’t even like ordering breakfast at restaurants. Usually, I order orange juice before I realize the orange juice costs two dollars and twenty-five cents compared to the one dollar and fifteen cent coffee. After that I usually black out into a panic attack, but I’ve been told I mostly shake uncontrollably and grumble about communism; but that’s neither here nor there, so I digress.
Commitment isn’t even the greatest of my fears, as it falls somewhere between both of my legs bending the wrong way and dropping my phone into liquid hot magma. What surprises me about these irrational fears is they aren’t accompanied by a fear of being left alone. Obviously, if this had been in the forefront of my quirky worries, I probably would have been more attentive to little hints she was dropping me about my shrug-offish attitude about sharing my feelings with her. The problem is, even if I had shared my feelings it would reflect a fear of commitment and she would have gotten upset anyway- but I don’t think this is how the female mind works- or at least how this females mind works. I should explain…
This is not the first time her and I have had a romantic encounter. It was sometime last year that her and I became acquainted; by acquainted, I mean she snuck me drunkenly through her building’s laundry room window and I woke up naked next to a trash can full of condoms. Even rougher back then, last years fling ended due to my own wishes, rather than hers. She mourned the breakup by promptly fucking one of my friends and continuing her ongoing guilt trip without telling me she’d slept with him. She justified this by bringing up the time I had sex with one of her dorm-mates while she was in the room- I made my own justification with the logical point that threesomes usually work that way. She didn’t seem to connect the dots. Flash to one year later, and here I sit.
I now realize that when we broke off our little escapade last year, it was through text message. This year, she told me over the phone at 2 am. I asked why she hadn’t broken it off earlier when I called her to no answer, and it was because she was with the new guy she was seeing. This time, her justification to me was answered by an abrupt , “Shut the fuck up.”
“I’m sorry,” she wimpered, and then there was quiet.
Trying to attatch any good outcomes to this situation is difficult. She told me that next time I should try to pay more attention to girls I date- all I’ve learned is to not date girs who hang out with Cracker Barrell employees. I can’t even be angry at the guy, she’s a good looking girl, but now I have a long explanation to my family about the girl who was supposed to come home with me. I suppose if I wanted to stretch for positive outcomes I could point out the fact that I got 3 months of consistent sex (the awesome “no condom because it’s the same person all the time fuck yeah” kind) and now someone else has to buy her Christmas gifts, but that more or less angers me for the guy. Nothing good really followed the situation, but I suppose good things happened within the situation. The true shock pertaining to the good outcomes is that they all tie back to her ending our situation over the phone.
You need to remember I had a lot of questions to ask after the grand reveal that another guy was in the picture.
I wanted to know why she was doing this to me, what this other guy had on me, what I ever did wrong. All of these questions could have been answered with an obvious “what do you think?” look had she known I was wearing footed pajamas and drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon from a can. For these answers, I’m grateful I was on the telephone. I can be salty that I didn’t get any goodbye sex, and that hate-sex might be my favorite kind- but I play second-dick to no one. The point I’m slowly drudging toward here is that I’m moderately offended for the gross oversight of my feelings, the fact that she wouldn’t sit face to face with me and tell me that she was packing up her vagina and tits and dumping them out in “greener pastures.”
I think even if I was inattentive and oblivious as I was made to sound that I deserve some sense of dignity and respect by at least being spoken to face to face. On the other hand, such a thing taking place over the phone gave me the opportunity to promptly hang up and make a few phone calls, eliminating the pondering walk home I would have needed to take had she invited me over for a chat. In fact, if I had walked over there in the cold and it wasn’t followed by sex, I would have promptly thrown a temper tantrum.
The truth is, an act some consider indecent is actually a bit of merciful. There’s a definite silver lining in avoiding the awkward silence and goodbye hug (which I would have done with one arm, my hips out and my head turned away as far as my neck could contort.)
Speaking in metaphor, I now realize that being thrown out of the bar before I could finish my beer means that it just gets me to the after-party quicker; her being the half-empty beer I’ll never finish, and the after party being the single life I forgot I loved so much.