Sorry I have been so MIA – I have been trying to track down one british, hair fluffing housewife and have had a serious case of writer’s block. In honor of #TBT the gayest hashtag of all time and an excuse for people (myself included) to post pictures of ourselves before we grew love handles and it was still considered “cute” to have undefined cheekbones and live at your parents house – I decided to take a trip down memory lane and share the story of the first time I got dumped.
Sure I had 2 week relationships end in middle school probably because I wouldn’t put out and had the body type of a malnourished Kenyan but those don’t count. My first dump (ew) was on my 13th birthday. I was in Hawaii and received a text message right before my cake came out which was truly magnificent timing. I had a small Maui meltdown, cried on the beach and then drowned my sorrows in a chocolate soufflé like a lady. I was super fugly then and vowed to turn this long distance break up into a chance for me to really work on tan, put lemon in my hair and come back a total bombshell and make him regret his decision. Much to my dismay I returned back to Los Angeles with third degree burns, Hispanic highlights and low self-esteem. He already had a new girlfriend with annoyingly straight gentile hair, perfectly applied eyeliner and enough Juicy tracksuits (which were a big deal at the time) that I honestly could’ve cut a bitch. Despite my recent heartbreak I vowed not to make more of a fool of myself then I already did naturally with my under-developed chest and the headgear I had to wear at sleepovers. I made “Cry Me a River” my ringtone and made a promise to myself I would never be the girl crying in public, shoveling Ben n Jerry’s down my throat and feeling like shit about myself.
Unfortunately my vow of composure did not sustain for the next time I got dumped. I had been dating my high school boyfriend for 3 years when he dumped me approximately 2 weeks before we left for college. He had texted me and asked to come over so “we could talk”. I was pretty convinced I had the upper hand in our relationship so I didn’t pick up on any signs of a breakup. When he walked in he looked like a ghost, he had no color in his face and was nervously fumbling with his hands. Is he going to fucking propose? Why is he acting so strange? He sat down and he attempted to make small talk while he wiggled around in his seat like he had contracted a small stint of cerebral palsy. “So how was your day?” “What the fuck is going on? Do you have Hepatitis or something?” “I need to talk to you” “Yeah duh, I got the memo. So what is it? Are you breaking up with me?” I should include I asked that as a JOKE because in my delusional brain him going all red state and proposing at 18 seemed more likely than him dumping me. SILENCE. “Jackie, I am so sorry.” I looked into his eyes and could see tears welling up and knew this was no joke. It is in moments like this you really find out what kind of person you are. Sure I could have cried, asked him what went wrong, let him hold and console me, vow to stay friends and wish him the best as we tearfully parted ways…But that is so not me. This bitch wasn’t having it. “ARE. YOU. FUCKING. KIDDING. ME?” My first reaction was complete and unrefined ANGER. I immediately swung for his face and then screamed “I STAYED WITH YOU WHILE YOU HAD BRACES! I EVEN PRETENDED TO LIKE THAT DISGUSTING BRIGHTON NECKLACE YOU BOUGHT ME. I FUCKING HATE BRIGHTON.” For me it has always been easier to be mad then sad. I literally do not cry and refused to let him see me upset. As I felt the tears start to well up he reached out for me and I swung away his open arms and said “DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!” like a bonafied psychopath. Not wanting him to see me cry I sprinted out the front door and began to run barefoot. In my head I thought this seemed dramatic and emotionally liberating. I imagined some song from the Garden State soundtrack song playing in the background while I let the wind blow through my hair and I would run to escape my issues. It all seemed super cathartic. Not so much. I only made it 3 blocks before I got a side cramp, a piece of glass stuck in my foot and the summer humidity was doing nothing for my hair. It had only been like 32 seconds… what is the point of an overly dramatic escape if it only lasts for half a minute? I couldn’t go back in the house now, it was too awky. Instead I snuck into the side yard of my parent’s house and quietly waited for half an hour to make sure it seemed like a legit emotional gesture. When I came back in the house I remained completely silent and unaffected. “Where did you go?” “None of your fucking business” “Jackie, can we please talk about this?” “There is nothing to talk about. You will regret this decision for the rest of your LIFE. Get out of my house.” Classy.
For the next week I didn’t eat, didn’t sleep and spoke to no one. He would try to call me and I would turn on my radio as loud as possible and speak loudly over the music and say “Sorry I can’t talk to you I am at a party hooking up with LOTS of older guys! Must suck to have broken up with me!” Click. What a shit show, I could say I am embarrassed by my behavior but that would be a lie. For the following months I went out of my way to let him know what A BALL I was having since he dumped me. Despite the fact that this was not true I commend myself for only losing my shit behind closed doors and recruiting strangers or gay friends to pose for romantic Facebook pictures with me. I would send an “accidental” text here and there to him like “Hey ;)” when he would respond I would say, “Oh sorry, that was meant for a new guy I am seeing. Hope your miserable! XO” #cute Because wrath has no fury like a scorned bitch… I need a cocktail #memories #tbt #lowpoint