My ex-boyfriend and I broke up last August 16, 2007 – we were 14 days short of our three-year anniversary. As with any breakup, at first I thought I’d never recover from it, but I did. And the more time goes by the better I feel about it.
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It’s my ex’s birthday tomorrow and I don’t have to buy him a present (or a card). Yay!
No more tears shed over unanswered phone calls, text messages, and emails
No more praying (in vain) that he’ll send me flowers one day, write me love poems, or take me out to a romantic restaurant
No more waiting for him to show up 2 hours late for our meetings
No more being late for movies and just about everything else
No more having the misfortune to be seen with him in public when he wears his old see-through t-shirts with more holes than gruyère cheese
No more being forced to sit through another episode of “Heroes” or some other stupid television show/series he’s crazy about at the moment
No more being made to watch retarded comedies with zero cinematic value
No more merengue or salsa dancing with a very uncomfortable piece of wood poking at my pubic bone
No more treasure hunts for soiled socks and dirty underwear on laundry day
No more talking to myself on the phone
No more trying in vain to engage a sleep-deprived zombie that falls asleep faster than the speed of light into a conversation
No more being kept up at night by deafening snores and explosive snorts
No more finding myself on the verge of falling off the bed because some schmuck in seventh heaven thinks he’s alone in the bed
No more waking up in the middle of the night struggling for air to unbury myself from the heavy body parts that were piled up on top of me while I was asleep (for the same reason as above)
No more hanging out with the same drinking gang of immature cronies
No more yelling at him from the top of my lungs for him to end his 30-minute morning showers so that we can attempt to be on time for work for once
No more rolling into work guiltily at 11 am pretending not to notice how late it is
No more trying to fight off the horndog
No more fake orgasms or lies that sex was good
No more 15-min bl*w jobs that leave me feeling like my lips were injected with novocaine and my jaw dislocated
No more having to tend the area south of the border
No more being asked to sniff dirty laundry to see if it should be thrown in the wash or not (because I apparently have a bloodhound sense of smell)
Likewise, no more being asked to sniff 5-month old food leftovers to see if they’ve gone bad or not
Now I can listen to sappy crooners all I want (hello, Michael Bublé!)
I can watch the baddest, scariest horror films in peace without sissy next to me tugging at my arm or jumping up (annoyingly) in his seat whenever he’s scared
I can fart and stink up the bed to my heart’s content (and not get called bed farter and made to go take a dump)
I can bend over with the peace of mind that no dog will get behind me and act like a dog
I can go to Target and stay there for 2 1/2 hours
I can make funny faces or prance around like a monkey in public if I feel like it
I can swear like a drunk French sailor (and not be told to watch my manners)
I can wear sweaters in 98 degree weather
I can wear the black and white striped top I wore on my first date with him without being called a prison inmate
I can smell till I can’t take it any more (and have to take a shower)
I can leave the toothpaste cap off and even throw it on the floor for fun if it makes me happy
The drive-thru at Wendy’s will never be my Friday dinner out on the town again
My toilet seat will always stay DOWN
My bedroom will never smell like roquefort cheese again
What I Love About Being Single November 2, 2007
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