Wednesday, November 01, 2006

ThePeach Celebrates Her 2-Week Dump-iversary

2 weeks ago today I had my heart broken into a million little pieces and then urinated on. It wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t pretty. Nothing in the world was pretty. I still can’t fucking believe that FauxHawk and I are over – but here it is, 2 weeks later, and I’m still kicking. It’s a weak, crippled leprosy of a little kick, but it’s a fucking kick, damnit.

To celebrate the fact that I’ve kept my shit together for 2 weeks, I had a special little romantic date with myself tonight. Yes, I know how fucking sad that is. Laugh and die. Seriously. Try it. I’ll cut you.

First, I went for an hour-long massage at the spa. Hells ya. This was beautiful on so many levels. There was the level of pain relief: all of the stress of my heartache has manifested itself in my FUCKING SPINAL COLUMN. I’m like a goddamn cripple. But my masseur tenderly worked on my poisoned muscles until I no longer felt the need to steal mass quantities of Vicodin and other assorted opiates from hospitals and homeless people. It was like having multiple orgasms of the spine. Which is probably the best orgasmic activity I can hope for right now, anyway.

There was also the level of touch. I was touched by a human being for the first time in 2 weeks. I hope I don’t have to continue to pay monies to experience the touch of another human, because that’s a slippery slope. And I’m too hot to fuck hookers. Except for Colombian Hookers – they’re worth every peso, used needle, and button that you pay for them.

I was disappointed about one aspect of my massage. I was hoping for some beefy mens to be my masseur, and in my fantasy-riddled mind he would be so turned on by my sexy body that he would take me right there on the kinky massage table. Unfortunately, my masseur was a beefy lesbian. And she turned me down.

After my non-sexual massage, I came home and made myself a big fancy dinner. Fuck ya! I’m a fucking great cook! I actually made the exact same meal for FauxHawk about 4 days before he dumped my ass. But this time I perfected it and I didn’t have to share. So not only did it taste better, but I get to eat leftovers tomorrow. Which is awesome. Because bitch can’t cook every night. Bitch is lazy. Bitch has tv to watch.

So, all-in-all, I’m pretty pleased with myself right now. Ya, I had my heart shredded and I still feel like total shit. But I got through 2 weeks without:

a) calling him/seeing him/stalking him/following him/emailing him. None of my friends had to pry the phone or keyboard out of my hands, even when I was drunk or high or both. Which, you know, is often. I didn’t try to ‘accidentally’ run into him – actually, I did my goddamn best to avoid him as much as possible. Did I want to call him? Fuck yes, every single day. I still want to. Sometimes I accidentally automatically almost call him, but I catch myself and hurl the phone into a vat of acid and sit in a circle of salt holding a cross and muttering Sanskrit. I refuse to be demoted to “less than girlfriend”. I’m better than that shit.

b) Losing my job/friends/failing school. I went to work every day. I did fuck all, but what else is new? I went to (almost) all my classes. And I made friends with the big-headed keeners and sappy male-poets! I still want to rip off my arm and beat them to death with it every time they talk in class, but other than that they’re cool. I didn’t make my old friends break up with me for whining 24/7, because I refuse to whine 24/7. And plus I bribed them with salty treats.

c) Losing my dignity. I didn’t beg him to take me back, I didn’t scream or yell at him when he dumped me, and I don’t plan to attempt to make his life miserable. He can do that all by himself. So ya, I’m pretty sure I’ve kept my dignity intact. Unless he still reads my blog, in which case he probably thinks I’m a crazy crack-whore. But that is no longer my problem!

d) Harassing our mutual friends for information about him. If he’s dating some 19-year-old Jewish girl who thinks she just struck doctor-gold, I don’t want to know. However, any information they ever want to share about how miserable he is would be totally acceptable. Possibly even rewarded with alcohol and purring.

e) Running away/joining a convent/catching the Syph. Universitytown is small and miserable but, damnit, it’s my home too! And, while I refuse to give up mens forever, I’ve managed not to whore myself out to anything with a peepee. By which I mean my only bed-mate is my cat. Who smells like feces and bites my eyelids. AND PEES ON MY FUTON!!! (ya, he did it again. I cried for real. A lot). But hey, it’s only been 2 weeks. I plan to start auditioning mens for a leading role in my one-woman show at some point.

TaDaaaa…I’m a breakup goddess. A miserable goddess who still cries randomly during sad commercials and hasn’t slept at all ever since she tried to taper her gravol dose, but still!

I hereby conclude “The Breakup Diaries”. Bring on “The Bitter/Jaded/Sexy Whore Diaries”. “With less cookie dough and more booze”. “And less crying and more sex”. “Hopefully not just with myself and Colombian hookers”.



Jesus Guillermo said...

The Peach is brillaint! I cried so hard, I laugheds. Or was it the other way around? I can't remember, 'cause my brain hurts.

Cleavage said...

We've outlined the requirements of The Trampage - you know what to do.

The Legend said...

really? The lesbian turned you down? weird. She must've been born male and then had his thing cut off to confuse other men. . . and sleep with them.

I'm never going for a massage in UniversityTown. (S)he might be there and...

Anonymous said...

You is awesome!

Billy said...

Funny, Legend... that's exactly why I'm going to schedule one ASAP.

I might even *request* the shim!

asian cymbals said...


This was a great post. Me lurves you Peach!

And keep trying out the lesbian massage could happen to you. Wink wink.