We Move On

Anonymous Guest Contributor


Nothing is worse than getting your belongings back from an old lover.

Sit down, son, I have a story for you. Your father has had a couple whiskey sours and just listened to Pinkerton. You don’t know what Pinkerton is? Surely, you know Weezer? What?! They were the Beach Boys of my generation–how are you my son? Seriously.

Well, listen. You need to learn how tough my life was when I was a 21 year old white male living in Boston. You know, Boston, that city specifically designed for 21 year old white males.

Anyways, your Father was with a woman that was not your Mother. This was a long time ago when your Father thought that any girl that gave him a blowjob halfway through The Social Network was “the one.” (Mmm Jesse Eisenberg.) A simpler time. Let’s skip the middle part and just say that we were together and then, due to circumstances and her god-awful attitude towards everything, we weren’t. But these were the ‘teens! Hook-up culture was in full swing.

We. Were. Millennials.

Breaking up didn’t stop us. It just meant we could have risky sex with other people and not tell each other about it. Until we did.

Son, if I have to give you advice, it’s this. Don’t love someone in college. Because once you’re not with that person, you will have sex. With her and other people. A good amount of it. And it’ll be awesome, but it’ll also suck. It’s draining, emotionally. And physically, I guess. (Yes, laugh all you want, son.) Even though you’ll know in the back of your mind that it’s not the “right” thing. Maybe. Or it could just be your brain being a stupid son-of-a-bitch. Either way, you’ll always think “what if?”

We kept up this charade, together. Hindsight is 20/20. I was seeing people, and (though I never got a clear answer) we can almost certainly assume she was seeing people as well. But still, other than one time when we fessed up to our post-relationship affairs, we kept each other in the dark. That was the rule. We could do whatever we wanted, but as long as we were hooking up and in the same (small) city, we would not “date” anyone else. It was stupid.

And I was always there for her. Which, when I look back on it, I really shouldn’t have been. I should’ve taken care of myself. I should’ve treated the women I had been with better. Treated them with the respect that they deserved. Instead, I got drunk.

One day, I got very drunk. And very stoned. It was at the Boston Marathon, and the year after the bombings. It was supposed to be the redemption day! It wasn’t. My friend had become stoned, at my doing, and got sick. Like passed out sick. It happens, and he bounced back, but I felt awful about it. That alone ruined my day, and probably would’ve ruined my week if this hadn’t happened. But I was determined to bounce back! So I assembled some buds and we went to play kickball at the park. We start playing kickball. I’m a little (very) burnt out. Tired. Still wanting to bounce back. So I keep playing. We end up playing another group of (presumably) drunk/high weirdos. I’m doing well. Covering first like a champ. Hitting doubles, triples, singles. I don’t think I had it in me to run all the way around the bases for a home run, so my offense was more utility than slugger.

And just like that, I saw her. I saw her with another guy. Holding his hand. In the park. On a day when everyone should be drunk, she was dates at the park looking at dogs. It sucked. As if I didn’t feel bad enough for my sick friend, I also had to see the “love of my life” (lol, hindsight is funny) with another man.

This was pretty much the worst case scenario. But no. NO NO NO NO NO. It wasn’t. Cause she decided to stop with him and watch me. Watch me try and ignore this bulldozer to my heart as I kicked a stupid fucking kickball like a child. While she stood with some man like this was all no-big-deal. That was it.

I kicked ass the rest of the kickball game. We won. Then I went home and erased her from my life. I deleted her from my Facebook, unfollowed her annoying sad white girl Twitter and deleted her number. Then I stood around waiting for her to text me as I barely was able to eat or do anything for the next three days.

Finally she texted me. She wanted to talk. Fine. I’ll talk. She gave me plenty of time to think of exactly what I was going to say. I was angry. I was angry that I blew it so many times with so many women in order to protect whatever joke of a relationship I had with her. I was angry that she had lied to me the last three weeks when she said she was “busy with school” rather than “I’m fucking this guy and I think I’m going to make him my boyfriend, sorry”. She lied every time she sent me an ugly selfie, or told me that no one cared about her but me and that I couldn’t leave her. This just made me sad. I was sad that I had wasted my time, prohibited myself from getting over her, bettering myself and more.

So we met up after class. I go outside and see her sitting on a bench as far away as possible from everything. I have to walk over like a fucking goon. “Do you want to walk?” I said sure. She was silent. Then she started, “I know you probably hate me and I’m sorry for not communicating with you the last three weeks.” K. We were standing by a couple classroom buildings. I yelled at her. She tried explaining herself. Son, she was “miserable” with me. Did you know that? Four months since our break-up and she was “miserable” but never seemed to mention that when she called me up saying she missed me and needed me. Maybe it was my fault for not seeing she was miserable, but I couldn’t even tell how miserable I was. Her constant needing made me think she was needing me instead of any person with a dick that would tell her that she’s not worthless. But alas.

My professor saw us. My friends saw us. Yelling. Standing away from each other. She tried to cry. But I had seen her act in the past. I knew when she was acting, and this feigned attempt at emotion was “acting” and it was pretty hilarious to watch. I laughed. She just stared. She was happy that she was doing this to me. I knew this didn’t matter anymore. She didn’t matter.

Again, I don’t remember what she said to make me leave, but I turned away and said “I hate you so much” and started to walk. And then I heard my name. And I turned around. I don’t know what I was expecting. But I saw she had a grocery bag.

“What is this?”, I asked. I glanced in, and saw the books I had lended her. A pair of my shorts. A policeman’s hat from Halloween when she refused to hang out with me (we were still dating).

I stashed it in my backpack. I hopped on my bike and I fucking booked it. I wasn’t breathing heavy. I wasn’t tired. My legs didn’t feel. I just pushed.

I pushed and then I turned my head. Like a beacon, I saw my two buddies. I whistled and then found a place to roll onto the sidewalk.

Now, I’m normally someone that people think is always in some kind of good mood, or at least not sad.But they caught on pretty quickly what was up. “What’s up?” one asked me. I had to say something. So I told them everything. And I was met with the best response. “Well, do you want to walk around the grocery store for a bit?” I said, sure. But as long as we could drink afterwards. They said sure. Then I got a text message.

I remember meeting this girl. I hadn’t treated her very well, but she still texted me. I liked that. I think I could like her. I needed to redeem this, because I couldn’t blow it with her.

She was going to a lame bar and wanted to know if I would meet up with her. Now, son, this girl was way out of my league. No. No. I’m not saying that because I had just been dumped by a girl I wasn’t dating. I mean it. WAY TOO GORGEOUS AND COOL FOR ME. Positive. Bubbly. Funny. Smart. What was she doing texting me? It was only a matter of time until she realized that I’m me.

“Come over after” I replied. Smooth.

So, my buddies and I walk around the grocery store and then head back to my place. We watch some television, have a couple Gs AND Ts and then they leave. It was getting late. I thought, surely, the way-too-good for me girl was going to flake out. I called my best friend and told her about everything. I had had a few drinks at this point. And right when I finished my phone call, I heard a knock.

I opened the door and every problem I had washed away. Seriously. One good person will do that. We spent the rest of the night talking and laughing. I completely forgot about everything that had happened. Like THAT.

She slept over, which was great, because I got to wake up the next morning with this godsend in my arm while sitting across from me on my desk was a bag. A bag filled with books. A policeman’s hat. And a pair of shorts. Tainted memories. She got up and looked at the bag.

“What’s this?” “It’s nothing.” “Are these your shorts?” “Yeah.” “Can I wear them?” “As long as you’re ready to be comfiest you’ve ever been in your entire life.” She put on the shorts. They really were fucking comfortable. And I knew that this was the start of some new memories. A new life for the discarded relics on my desk and a new life for me.

And that, son, is how I went from the lowest I had ever felt in Boston to the best I ever felt in four or five hours. That’s what it’s all about. When life gets you down, there’s only a few things you can do. Go for an angry/sad bike ride. Walk around a grocery store. Have a few G AND Ts. Watch “Review” with Andy Daly (look it up, it was an INCREDIBLE show for all 28 seasons it was on). And make sure the next woman (or man) that you’re with is even better than the previous person. Finding that person can take years, or it can take hours. I just happened to get incredibly lucky.

Anyways, I don’t mean to keep you and your friends from your sleepover activities for too long. I’m going to go listen to “The World Has Turned and Left Me Here” from the Blue Album and then cry myself to sleep with some American Football. You kids have fun!

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