Monday, May 4, 2009
red eyes, blue gaze, you look like hell today...
...step out on parade, you do it so well
what a weekend,
what a mess,
what on Earth will I do now...
Slept with the ex boyfriend. Not the ex, but the ex ex. A boy (a man really, I suppose) who has been tinkering on the periphery of my life for several years. And who I periodically cheated on my ex with. Someone I love and hate with equal fervor such that the overall outcome is close to indifference. And someone who, in many years, after many more torrid romances with many different men, I feel I will inevitably give up and marry. And live out the rest of my indifferent life.
The great irony is that I slept with him on Saturday night. On Saturday day I had dismantled my ex boyfriend's big queen sized bed (which had been residing at my house) and bought myself a beautiful, white, brass and iron single bed. Pristine, perfect, single. A symbolic (and expensive) gesture intended to signify the transition into the next phase of my life.
I fucked up
I fucked him in it
I fucked him in it the first night
when I hadn't even had ONE NIGHT in it alone
So that was disappointing, but it was only the beginning of a much greater mistake. All day on Saturday I had been feeling horribly lonely. Worthless and disgusting, and like there was nobody in my life who I could share my dirty lonely secrets with. I cried and cried for the first time in weeks.
So after he slept over on Saturday night I decided he might be the person for me to tell. Someone I'm not too emotionally entangled with for it to matter if he no longer saw me the same way. Someone sufficiently detached from the rest of my life that he wouldn't pop up as a reminder and someone who could keep a secret. And someone who might... care. Maybe.
But I couldn't do it sober, so in a great romantic gesture I sneaked to the shops and spent all my money on champagne, strawberries and pastries and thought I'd have a beautiful day, get a little tipsy, and declare my disorder. He refused my offerings, so I downed the lot myself. It wasn't enough to loosen my tongue. So I topped it off with sleeping pills, gin and cointreau and kept at it until I was a revolting mess. Then in a tearful blur I blurted out that I have bulimia.
He stayed until Monday morning.
But he never looked at me the same way again.
And I don't think he cares.
He just doesn't think I'm perfect anymore.
And he used to be the only person who did.
I could murder myself.
I could kill to get my secret back.