Stick a Fork In It

For lack of enthusiasm to rehash the lameness of my love life, I have been uninspired to write. Since the drunken tiramisu debacle, My Favorite Mistake and I had about two good months during which we did not discuss the rekindling of our foolish love affair, instead focusing on morning toast in bed, Wii tennis tournaments and scary movie nights.

Queue “the discussion.”

Now, two months into a new relationship, I probably would not have been so rabid to discuss “where we stand as a couple” before taking a three week vacation to the west coast. (This is most likely a happy lie, though, as I simply do not understand mankind’s unwillingness to engage in an adult dialogue about relationship status. Yes, yes, labels can pigeonhole a burgeoning relationship, sure. However, labels can also tell you what you are getting and whether what you are getting will be seeing a slice on the side while you are unknowingly unwrapping Christmas presents 3,000 miles away.) However, almost two years into a tumultuous relationship which has at times been both casual and horrifyingly serious, I wanted clarification on what we were doing (again). I wanted to know if I should invest more time and energy into a so far constantly failing relationship. Suffice to say, this dialogue did not go well as it turned into a fiery monologue on my part and bewildered huffing on his.

So, after sunning my now single self in California for three weeks, I have returned to the east quite content. For the first time, I feel like this relationship is completely done. There is nothing left to feel out, experience or discuss with him.

Five minutes after I finally made it home again, My Favorite Mistake called me having an existential life crisis. And, for the first time, I was entirely unmoved. I will always care for him, yes. I will probably miss him, too. However, we are assuredly done as “us” has ceased to exist. Stick a fork in me, I’m gladly done.

Queen of Spades