Originally written sometime in July.
I miss you, and I’m mad. They say it’s normal, and it is. But I don’t care. I miss you, and I’m mad. You don’t deserve to be missed. You didn’t deserve it then, and you sure as hell don’t deserve it now.
I think about you. Everyday. You don’t deserve that either. The part that pisses me off the most is I miss you more now than a week ago. Isn’t it supposed to fade away? I didn’t even think about you a month ago. What the fuck? You’re such a fucking asshole … and I’m an even bigger one for writing an entire post about you. Of course you don’t deserve this post either.
I ran last night. The treadmill was my bitch. Two miles in 20 minutes, not good but better. I started to get tired, and looked up: 1.98 miles. I wanted to stop. I knew I could finish if I really wanted to, and for five seconds just the thought alone was good enough. Then, I remembered what you did to me and realized .02 ain’t shit. I looked up again, 2.37 miles. Fuck it, might as well do three now.
I have dinner and imagine you on the other side of the table. Eating your usual California Roll with your hands. Asking if I’m OK, if I want something else. If I want sake. I don’t. You say you don’t either, but I know if I order a bottle you’ll drink it. I don’t order it. I just want to look at you. And pretend that we’re as good as we look.
The more I try to forget, the more I remember. All the bad things you did, all the bad things I allowed to happen, and all the bad things you made me feel. It was so, so bad.
But most of all, I remember how unfortunately AMAZING it was.
And I wish I could just forget. Forget the first time I ever saw you. How we actually met. Inviting you to Nations. Planning the perfect first date outfit: Beige off the shoulder cable knit sweater, destroyed white skinnies, and borrowed Sam Edelmans. Forget how excited, and nervous, yet relaxed I felt. And how the fourth of July had nothing on us. It was the best, first date I wish I could just forget. Because it was so, so good.
Obviously it was good. Otherwise I wouldn’t miss you so much. Because I don’t miss any of the tears. I don’t miss the anxiety. And I don’t miss staring at my cell phone wondering what or who you’re doing to not call. Instead, I miss all the wonderful things that kept me desperately holding on.
FUCK. Forget it. This isn’t working. So maybe I’ll just try to remember instead.