It ended over a year ago, but I still like complaining about my ex. I shouldn’t. I handled the breakup in a healthy way: dined on whiskey for the week and relied on friends for the rest. Because of them, I never found myself at the end of the Blue Line in some forgotten Chicago suburb. I probably kissed a few strangers, too, somewhere between tumblers. Still, long after the post-breakup pity period, I gleefully turn to them to whine, whether they like it or not.
There’s always a reason for it. A Christmas present. A letter. Old photographs I ripped to shreds.
One small memory to spark a flurry of distressed text messages to the people who knew us both—or at least those who took my side. So why bother, when time and distance has given me this “perspective” thing everyone was talking about? I’m secretly building an authentic foundation for future breakups. A horrific tale from ex-land is the best excuse to end it with whatever loser is drinking all my beer. Or gets too clingy too quickly. Or isn’t motivated. Or has started heroin again. Or has a secret girlfriend. Or lives in some bullshit place like Long Island. Or is any one of these dudes. (Paul?) Basically, better to blame somebody else than break some poor kid’s heart. It was him, not me, after all.
Plus, if you live with a cat, you’re not alone. And I like cats.