It's over. After completely comprehending that the ex-boyfriend does not want contact, I deleted all of his text messages with a single touch.
Ahhh, the beauty of technology. I promise myself I will not be a cyber-stalker anymore. He hasn't been answering the phone, emails, or anything. Bastard, bastard. I hate men. I keep joking with the sister that I am becoming a man-hater in Maureen Dowd fashion.
Mentally I feel shitty. I've signed up for all of the dating sites, only to get a few measly pokes from the divorced, over 44, and divorced-over-44-with-two-kids set.
"You don't want someone's leftovers," a friend tells me. Of course I don't, but even with the ex, I envy his mysterious ex-wife, who actually got him. I wish he would have told me what she was like, what she looked like. I'm so curious.
“It's not fair, life's not fair, a lot of things are a shame,” the father says. It's a shame that some babies die when they are born, that newlyweds die in a head-on collision on their honeymoon, it's a shame that all of those people died on Sept. 11—but what are you going to do about it? Why do you keep looking back, instead going forward, he asks? I am fixated and obsessed with what didn't work instead of what did.
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