You know, I’ve had that line on my list as a possible title, and I thought I would never get to use it. Whouda thunk I would end up with a crooked smile?
First, a disclaimer. The “resignation letter” was supposed to be “tongue-in-cheek.” AH HA HA HA! I kill myself. Tongue in cheek. So funny. Well, funny to me. But we all know, I have no intention of resigning from the dating world. It’s just too comical.
Now, let’s zip up some old business. The Bartender is no more. It was foolish of me to shit where I eat, so to speak, however, I was willing to – in the name of fun. But it isn’t fun anymore. The Bartender, for his young age, has baggage. I hate baggage.
I received a text message Friday morning sent by The Bartender but clearly not intended for me. While I care absolutely zero of the content of said message, it basically illustrates that this ex girlfriend drama is a two-way street, as much instigated by him as it is her. So I’m staring at my phone realizing this isn’t meant for my eyes. Here we have come full circle. Finally I get to see something he feels that I’m not supposed to know.
Then he called me, not realizing what had just happened. I read him the text message. We had a conversation about mostly unimportant details but he said things about his ex and how she found my blog by some information he gave her and how she reads it. (When they were handing out “lives” she must have forgotten to get in line.) Now, hold that thought for a minute as I must tell you that hours after all this happened, I got a copy of the Post Express and read, among other things, my horoscope:
- You’ll get a tell tale sign from a friend early in the day that will give you all the information you need to know right now.
I was eating lunch with a friend and spit out my sandwich. Well, okay, that wasn’t hard to do since half my mouth doesn’t work anyway. So I tell my friend about my morning, then read the horoscope out loud. In shock. It’s like it was written for me. Then I said, “I’m done.”
Why am I done? I refuse to be in the middle of some teenage drama. I’m not here to help some girl keep tabs on her old boyfriend. I’m not here to listen to sob stories from The Bartender and how he can’t shake this leech of an ex. I’ve said above, and to so many of you in comments on your own blogs that “When it isn’t fun anymore, it isn’t worth it.” And this, my friends, just passed the last stop of fun, heading to a place I don’t want to go.
I don’t get harassed by my ex-boyfriends because I move, change my number, become invisible, stop returning phone calls – whatever it takes to get them out of my life. I so systematically removed myself from a long-term relationship that it took his entire family months to realize they had no way to get in contact with me. It’s clear that The Bartender thrives on this drama, and I’m just not in 7th Grade anymore. If one of my ex-boyfriends current girlfriends was writing a blog, I would log into it exactly ZERO times. Why? Because I DON’T FUCKING CARE WHAT MY EX-BOYFRIENDS ARE DOING! That’s why they have the “ex” in front of their prior label of “boyfriend.”
To the ex-girlfriends who can’t get over the boy and pine away for him, grasping for what little they can find out about him, get a life.
To the ex-boyfriends who love this attention, pretend they don’t invite it, but still entertain it anyway, grow up.
My “mistake” in all of this is, well, that I have not told The Bartender that we’re through. Maybe his ex-girlfriend can call him and tell him.
Soon, I’ll have to move, because I will have officially dated (and been hated by) every man in Washington D.C. and the suburbs.