It’s funny. She keeps a blog, right, sort of the inspiration for this one. So I’m bored today, and I decide I’m going to peruse the archives for a while, see what’s up.
Let me stop my run here to preface this whole thing with two thoughts. 1) I am not normally a jealous type. Used to be, leaned to get over myself somewhere between getting married and getting divorced. 2) The remix and I have talked about this, before. The fact that I’m able to deal fairly well with past boyfriends/lovers/men as long as I have no specifics to get in my head and rub it raw like a bit of sand under your tongue. So what do I do? I go find specifics. Nice call, Deej.
I’m doing ok, reading this. The primary thing to come from all this wasn’t the jealousy. The biggest thing was a deep and penetrating sense of longing. I miss her, retroactively, just from reading the pseudo-biographical blog archives. I wish I’d been there to comfort her, the days she was sad. I wish I’d been there to laugh with her, the days she was happy. I just wish I’d been there, the way you wish you’d seen the beginning of a favorite movie you just catch the end of. Unfortunately for everyone, the biggest thing is not the thing I’m interested in, just now.
The interesting thing is the jealousy. And it’s a weird one. She told me once, beforehand, that the only people she’d really been with I already had names for. I didn’t quite believe it. I knew she wasn’t the one night stand type, don’t get me wrong. I also knew that she dated, serially, by her own confession, and that somewhere in that whole Bill Clinton gray area there would be something to bother me. I found it. Great.
“Can't wait to see you again. Perhaps I ought to print this out and slip it in your pocket, as the face-mashing doesn't seem to leave a great deal of room for talking lately.” There’s more, of course. Much more, burning on my brain, of course, because I ask for it.
Rebound, I know. Didn’t work out, I know. I’m the one getting the glowing words and the face-mashing, which is what really matters. I know. I know, I know, I know.
Dear God, let me get over myself. And quickly.
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