Story Preface: In my short time in the dating world, from high school to adulthood, I have had no shortage of interesting encounters with people that never cease to amaze me. My friends and I joke around that once we move on from one relationship, we ship these men off to some mythical island of no-return with a paddle boat and no signal flares. We give them nicknames to remember them by, for the rest of time, we only use the nicknames. Sometimes, we even forget their real names. We have to resort to conversations that sound something like: “Remember that one guy, who wore women’s pants? What was his name? We called him Levi’s Petite, but what the hell was his name?” Without fail, we have all experienced some “what the hell am I doing here” relationships as we grow and determine what we want and need. More times than not, we have funny stories to fall back on when we reminisce about our mistakes and bad judgment. When I read this short blurb in the news about a breakup letter gone viral, it resonated with my friends and me. Creating a back story to this scenario was a blast, and I feel in some way I have paid homage and respect to my fellow sisters in search of a man who is not an overgrown child that requires adult supervision. I can only hope the real woman who wrote it had as much fun as I did, after the breakup of course.

http://t.living.msn.com/love-relationships/why-im-dumping-you-list-goes-viral-1 <— the link that inspired this story.

Why I’m Dumping You

Today I lost one hundred and eighty pounds. The weightlessness I feel and the zeal with which I feel it is truly unparalleled. The sky looks bluer; the grass feels crisper beneath my feet. I feel like I could take a running leap of faith right into the world and come out on the other end on both feet and with a smile on my face. In all honesty, I never imagined that a day like today would feel quite as thrilling as it does. Like a paper airplane, I want to swan dive into a pair of tightly cut, low waisted jeans, let my hair down, and flirt with every exciting opportunity that comes my way. Today I lost one hundred and eighty pounds. For the record, his name was Jake.
“Hey Ashley, its Jamie. Call me back when you get this. I finally dumped the fun-sucking, over-grown man-child and I want to celebrate by ceremoniously burning his shit in the front yard.”

When the sun came up this morning, I was unprepared for the day ahead. Like most days, the alarm went off what felt like light-years before it was meant to. Without opening my eyes, I rolled over in a sleepy, zombie like motion and slapped my alarm into submission. I repeated this every five minutes until I was finally awake enough to come to terms with the fact that at some point I did have to leave the safety zone of my bed and actually commit to productivity. To add insult to the injury of waking up at the armpit of dawn to go to work on a Saturday, the low growl of nasally snores coming from the man next to me made me want to vomit in my mouth and swallow it. I truly despised his existence; he had become like a child I had to take care of.

“Wake up, its three o’clock in the afternoon.”
“No, I am not going to kiss your Tasmanian devil tattoo for good luck.”
“Do we really need to own matching airbrushed bedazzled tee-shirts?”
“Yes, bacon is against the Vegan diet.”
“No, Red Lobster is not going to offer you a Groupon.”
“Please stop putting peanut butter in the blender.”
“If aliens abduct people to study them, why would they abduct you? You barely earned a G.E.D. and you collect Adams Family memorabilia.”

I would never have to sit through another rerun of Jay Leno’s gag reels, or pose for yet another humiliating photo with every last possible type of object that looks like a UFO. When I left my house to take a drive somewhere, I would never have to wipe my handprints off of the car handle, whose wellbeing was more important than mine for ‘resale value, babe!’ Today, I was going to cut this idiot from the roster and send him packing, preferably in the direction of some rehabilitation center for Neanderthal Comic Con geeks with closet obsessions for boy bands and hair gel. I knew it would be several hours into the afternoon before he roused himself for another invigorating day of sitting on my couch with his hand in his pants like he is paying homage to Al Bundy and the almighty alpha male.
With sleep still in my eyes I stumbled out of bed and made a beeline for the kitchen. The key to my success in maintaining some semblance of sanity would be several cups of coffee, and a very large plate full of assorted breakfast meats and eggs. Stupid fake Vegan dipshit, I thought to myself. In no time at all he would wake up for the first of many short moments of consciousness to ask me for some too, before backtracking about how its ok to eat meat sometimes as a Vegan, because of all of the protein, of course. I could care less about his macrobiotic diet or whatever the hell it was he was pretending to observe for that rock hard physique he keeps promising to unveil one of these days, when he gets a real job and joins a gym.

Naturally, when I reached the kitchen there were dishes piled high in the sink, covered in gunk and dried food from the day before. Coffee grinds coated the counter in front of the Keurig machine, like a literal reminder of how truly stupid this man really was. How anyone can create a spectacular explosion of crunched up java that comes in its own sealed container for convenient use is far beyond my realm of understanding. My cheeks were flushed with fury and maniacal hysteria. Before I can even enjoy my coffee and moments of silence before the parade of requests for breakfast I had to clean up as if I ran my own Merry Maids service. In twenty minutes, I managed to wipe away the reminder of his irritating existence from my countertops and procure myself with cup number one. Since I like to multitask, I brought the coffee with me to the laundry room in search of whatever clean shorts I might have to hit the gym and work off some frustration.

Alas, on top of the dryer were the leather pants that Prince forgot. Who the hell wears leather pants anymore? I sifted through the combination of our clothing, tossing his on the floor, and mine on top of the washing machine. After many pairs of saggy jeans that are two sizes too big, the kind he wore around his knees like he was raised by wolves from Compton, I gave up on locating any of my own personal affects and resigned to the fact that I would have to forego the gym. Honestly, “Gangster’s Paradise” always puts me in a weird mood, like I want to go out and pop a cap in someone’s ass. Or start a glitter gang. But that does not mean I am going to dress like a gang member from the suburbs. Thank the sweet lord the phone rang before I could find the collection of airbrushed wife beaters.
“Hey babe, you gonna sizzle up some animal for your favorite slice?” Was he seriously calling me from one room away? “No. You’re a Vegan. Go back to sleep.” I hung up and tossed my phone into the laundry basket and slammed the laundry room door behind me. What the hell language was that, Street Swahili? I shouldn’t need Rosetta Stone to communicate with and understand the corn fed white man lying in my bed, drooling on my pillow cases. But he wasn’t there anymore, he was standing in front of me stark naked in the hallway. “You look mad.” Yeah, no shit. “And you look like someone just stole your reefer at the Lilith Fair. Go shower.” And with that, I stormed back towards the living room and crash landed on the couch. I could hear the shower water running, and acknowledged that although he wasn’t always so bad, he had become an amalgamation of every adult woman’s worst nightmare. I had to see something appealing in him at one time, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember what.

Furiously, I was tearing through magazines and books on the coffee table for a blank piece of paper and something to write with. I settled on a stray piece of notebook paper, a balding Bic, and an unleashing of nine months’ worth of pent up hostility. I started a list of everything I could no longer stand about him. I noted his mannerisms, habits, quirks, and idiosyncrasies that ignited boiling levels of emotional overflow within me. Before I knew it, I had filled out the entire page, but had no idea what exactly I was doing. Perhaps I was exorcising the permanent irritation he had caused in my life; I was cleansing myself of his skin crawling nonsense. I titled it: “Why I’m dumping you.” It was the best paper I had ever written. I took a picture with my phone and posted it to Facebook for the world to see, it was my independence day! I ran into the kitchen and slapped it onto the refrigerator with a magnet and sprinted towards my bedroom. When I emerged again, I was dressed and prepared to flee. Before I did, I grabbed a post-it note from my living room computer table and scribbled a final message: “P.S. – Move out today. K THANKS!” I slammed it onto the front door before opening it, lunging out of it, and slamming it behind me.

As I hit the driveway, I scrambled to find my cell phone in my purse to call my best friend, my partner in crime, and most importantly, biggest hater of the idiot bathing in my bathroom. I dialed and dialed, each time getting her voicemail. Impatiently, I sent several “SOS” texts to get her attention to no avail. I settled on leaving a voicemail, proclaiming my victory over my circumstances, and jumped into my car and sped like a bat out of hell to the nearest Starbucks. Nuzzled into a chair with my venti iced mocha, and sipped in euphoria. It may as well have been a venti iced café mocha vodka valium latte, because it was the most peaceful, serene coffee I’d had in a long time. I lost one hundred and eighty pounds today, and man did it feel like the greatest triumph of my life.


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