The epitaph on the grave she buried me goes like this: Here lies the control freak, self-absorbed SOB, egoistical commitment-phobe, snob, sloth sleazebag and a worthless excuse of masculinity.
Well, maybe I have exaggerated a bit, but the hyperbole is just the second edition of what actually she did (not) say before she walked out one me for a barely legal, over self-absorbed Jay-Z wannabe trapped and confused in the limbo of whether to be a man or forever a boy.
I guess now the only thing that we share is lifespans in futility alone, history on (un)fair(l)y tale and big screen love written down tattered books of breakups history.
However, I can’t prefix whatever she used to be to me with ‘ex’. She’s still dear and close to me, and I hope she’d come back with tears in her eyes. I’d gloat for old times’ sake.
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