We could be everywhere right now. But instead I am wondering why he hasn’t called. Or texted, like I thought he would, and instead I am sitting here wondering. Which isn’t one of my favorite hobbies ever. In fact, it’s pretty low down there on the things that I enjoy doing with my life. Wondering where he is. And why he didn’t call. When we could be anywhere right now, but instead I am here. Festering, but just for right now, because for all he knows I could be resplendent somewhere else. Whether or not that would matter to him is unknown to me, but I could be doing anything other than kicking these bottles around my bedroom floor, with those grinning little pills in blistering multitudes inside little orange bottles. I tell myself not to think those kinds of thought, and that the days of dropping uncounted hands full of grinning little pills down my red, raw throat are over. But there must be something that I can do to numb the ringing in my ears, or is it the lack of ringing in my ears because all I hear is silence and no new telephone calls. That’s okay. I am beautiful as I stoop over this bathroom sink, all the unsettled wine in my stomach that I have been using as a haphazard remedy for this waxing loneliness suddenly threatening to reveal itself all over the bathroom floor. Because I miss fairly frequently, and I miss him right now. Although he should never know. I should stand here beneath these blinking neon lights in my bathroom in West Oakland and keep secrets from him. I shouldn’t let him know that I am this drunk right now, and tomorrow, or will it be the next day, or will it be next week, when calls again – he will call again, won’t he? I cannot let him know that I am like this right now. I cannot let him know that I miss him. But coolly I will collect myself and with a smile on my face I will say something that does not reek of the vindictiveness that is coursing through my veins right now. I will not let him know that he has let me down, but instead I will find the swiftest and most effective way to inflict a tantamount if not greater amount of pain on him as soon as I see fit. Because that’s what love is, baby.
He’ll never read this. I know he never will, and even if he did, he wouldn’t know that it’s for him. It’s all for him. As I sit here on my bedroom floor in my pajamas and my eyes full of tears. And he’ll never know how much I love him, because I’ll never tell him. Because even if I told him, what then? Me, with my face full of tears, and him, like he always is, sitting so far away with nothing to say. We are miles away from each other as we sit here at this table together, but if he would only bridge that gap with his hand on my hand – but, no. He will always be too far away, and I will always be sitting here, hoping, and waiting, and wanting. And suffering the plight of woman, with her love letters to nobody.
He’s been calling her a slut for quite some time now, and the last time I looked they had broken up six months ago. Although, it’s not that he’s calling her a slut, it’s that he’s going over her tags with the word “slut.” So what’s most interesting to me is the fact that someone who is on the outer edges of my social circle is blatantly publicizing the fact that he is *not* over his exgirlfriend, who apparently is dating someone new, but the exact minutiae of her sex life are not privy to me, therefore the veracity of the accusation that she is a slut is unknown to me. However, it seems apparent that she isn’t exactly spreading it all over town. She has just, as most women do, moved on to something better. Which is why I’m confused as to why I know so much about the fact that the exboyfriend thinks she’s a slut. When, what everybody knows is that he’s the one who’s been spreading it all over town. I’m not sure if this guy is projecting just a wee bit, and in all honesty I barely know her, but I have to respect a woman that lets a man make such a wild ass out of himself in a public way. Because I don’t see her losing in this situation. In fact, isn’t it a victory? He obviously isn’t over her, and if there’s any testament to the power of feminine wile it’s controlling your man so much so that even after it’s over, months and months after it’s over, he’s still pissing around town, wailing about his broken heart, because, girlfriend, you control that man. He is in your pocket, and you have won because there you go with your boyfriend and your smiling Instagram pictures. And everyone else out here is saying, “Oh, shit!” as he puts himself and his own butt hurt broken heart on blast. And, just so you know, no one thinks you’re a slut. People respect you because you’re not losing at a game that men invented, and that is probably the most threatening thing to a man. Ever.