And The Award Goes To..

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 13, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 13, 2016



What is there to say that hasn't already been said? "I'll never meet another girl like her, she's the only one," Blah blah fucking blah. Even the noise she made as I choked her to death wasn't original. "Stop! You're hurting me, I can't breathe," etc. I've heard it before. We all have. 

Ok, I didn't really choke her to death, but you get what I'm saying. I shouldn't even be writing this. It's just such a fucking cliché, I'm making myself sick just thinking about it. Imagine if she read this too! Not that she would, what with her new internship and all, she hardly has time to shit, let alone read a pathetic, scathing blog post about misinformed "love" and how it feels to have your heart torn open and tap danced on to the tune early 2000's r&b. Ashanti never sounded so fucking ALIVE, until I died to it. Not literally, but I don't think that was an exaggeration. I knew this would happen, you'd have to be a child to think otherwise, and children are fucking stupid. They do nothing but take, take, take, with nothing to give, except external cuteness, and other bullshit that doesn't even matter. Starting to sound familiar, honestly. And the one thing I hate more than children is predictability. This has already been written. In the same overwrought prose, with the same self centered undertones. The exact same. I tried to control this relationship from the very beginning. For me, their were only four plausible outcomes.

1. We talk for awhile, and then we eventually stop for whatever reason.
2. We start dating, and then she ruins my life
3. We start dating and I ruin her life.
4. We start dating and we mutually ruin each others lives.

I prefer the latter, but it never works out that way. Somebody always ends up more hurt than the other person, and it's usually me. I couldn't tell you why, and I stopped trying to figure it out after my ex left me for a drug addicted ginger whom I was told had a curiously small penis. This was good news, but less comfortIng than you'd think. It may have been small, but it was inside of her, so who's the real winner here? While he's fucking her, I'm simply writing about how he's fucking her. My legs shaking nervously as I write this. I just don't see any relationship of mine ending peacefully. It always erupts in flames, with the eventual death not far behind. I always imagined what it would look like if relationships received a coroners report:

(1) approximately 6 fist sized holes in plaster wall located in main bedroom.
(2) one broken red picture frame with picture missing
(3) one picture of couple, with "FUCK YOU CUNT" written in red Maybelline lip stick posted on black refrigerator
(4) one broken iPhone 5S(black)
(5) one orange vibrating cock ring, believed to have been used for male sexual stimulation. (Unconfirmed)

Relationship type: heterosexual
Relationship length: 1 year, 7 months
Manner of death: 1:00AM text message
Cause of death: violent outburst, sexual inadequacy and dishonesty("I cum quick, I know, but I can go again, I promise!")

Clearly, that doesn't tell the whole story and these sort of reports rarely do, but you get the idea. It's hard to objectively look at the events of, and leading up to, the end of a relationship without considering the past in some form. It really puts my insanity in perspective. Like a heroin junkie without dope, I ended up doing things I never thought I'd do, like killing her cat.

(Ok, I'm kidding. I never killed her cat, but I thought about it. And I love cats. I don't even like dogs, because I love cats so much, but I swear I wanted to kill that motherfucker. For the simple fact that she still liked him, and why shouldn't she? That spineless feline waited on hand and knee for her. But not me. You can't just feed me and rub my tummy into submission, although I wish it were that easy.)

I wonder where she goes when she cries. I've never seen it in person, even though I'm positive she's one of the saddest people I've ever met. There were exactly two times I HEARD her crying over the phone. Once on June 11th, while she sat outside of a rehab center contemplating the idea of leaving and coming back to me. The second time occurred on March 22nd, when I said I was leaving her after she told me about a guy who went by the name "Lafuze," and how she'd been fucking him in various hotels for the past few months. She refused to show me a picture ("he doesn't like getting his picture taken"), and you'd be surprised by the number of Lafuze's on Facebook. It could have been anyone of them, but this isn't about him. This actually isn't about anything, and if you're as miserable reading this as I am writing it, I won't blame you for gauging your eyes out right now. A bullet to the head doesn't even sound that extreme at this point. Except I don't believe in guns, and neither did she. I mean "neither DOES she." I keep talking about her in the past tense like she's dead but she's not. She's somewhere right now, doing something, with somebody. It seems really cinematic in my head. Even a simple "check, please," becomes gripping dialogue, and the cinematography? Forget it! Even her imperfections are award worthy.

And the winner,
of this years best sneeze,
in a public place,
goes to...

© Copyright 2018 Donald Morrison. All rights reserved.

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