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. Read more »