Have you ever been so bored and unable to sleep that you looked up an ex's blog and read it? If that's not hitting bottom, then I don't want to know what is. I was on some totally non-related website and thought "I wonder what [BLEEP] is up to." (That's not his real name, but it would be funny if it were. Brackets and all.)
I of course went to Livejournal and looked him up. Who the fuck still has a Livejournal? Better question -- who intentionally reads her loser ex's Livejournal? This is like a contest for who has become the most pathetic. Even though he has a better-paying job and a girlfriend, I still think he takes the Loser Crown for various reasons. Star Wars sheets is in the top 5. I hope he doesn't read this, because I don't really hate him and I wouldn't want him to feel bad. I'm just saying, though. Burn those.
So I glance through at the scattering of uninteresting posts -- most of which were links to stuff on CollegeHumor. If you're not familiar with CollegeHumor, congratulate yourself on not being a freshman in college. Freshmen are the only people on the planet who should not be punished by death for frequenting that site. Everyone else -- flamethrower.
I guess I'll continue this train wreck of a story. So I get to one post, and it's all the lyrics to a song that I once put on a CD I made for him and it's under the title "For [BLEEP]". (Once again, not her real name. That would be confusing.)
I don't know this girl, and I have absolutely nothing against her. Nor am I seething with some weird jealousy that he used "my" song. But seriously, out of all the love songs in the world, did you HAVE to choose that one? Then again, creativity was never one of his strengths. It just struck me as obnoxious. And also, if I were her, I'd be pissed if I found out my boyfriend used a song with which his ex had once had a Pavlovian sort of association in a cheesy blog love shout-out straight out of junior-high-style courtship. Could have been worse, though. At least the song wasn't "Amanda," because that most assuredly is not her name.
That's enough of thinking about him. I've been nauseated for three days as it is and there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. I wish I had a specific person to blame this on. Then I would have someone to slaughter.
I filled up my tank tonight on my way home from work. I stopped at the same BP station I always go to. And for the second time in a row, there was a grasshopper on the roof of my car. And for the second time in a row, it did not want to leave. It sat there as I tried to coax it off with my debit card. Then it jumped onto me. At least it didn't go down my shirt like the moths at the work parking lot. They gravitate like, well, moths to the lights outside the doors, and then, I suppose, attracted by the glow of my pale, pale flesh, fly straight down my cleavage as I walk to my car. If there is security video of this happening, I'd love to see it. I could probably win a million dollars. It's a three-step process:
- I go outside.
- I am walking like a normal human being.
- I am possessed by Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance.
It's like some bizarre Riverdance-inspired mating dance. Because oh dear god, it's been way too goddamn long. This is cruel to the point that Amnesty International is going to have to intervene on my behalf. If you get a mailing from them, for the love of god, sign the petition and the little "hang in there" card, and if you really care, scribble a dirty limerick or something under your name. It is a dark, dark hour. And I'm out of batteries.