It's foolish how my mind and memory play tricks on me. The silliest things will continue to set me off, paralyze my insides. Why am I still reeling over a breakup? Never in the history of my (too) many relationships has this been the case.
This morning I blogged about the book I just finished. "Beep beep boop," that was my book nerd alert. He used to laugh about that. "Beep beep boop," we'd say. "Book nerd alert!"
I went to type the words and froze. Jesus Christ.
Songs, still, get me. He made me so many CDs, I don't listen to them. Music was our thing. When will that stop?
American Idol finalist Danny Gokey went back to Milwaukee to visit his hometown, had a concert at the Summerfest grounds, on the same stage where the Brewers held their playoff party last October. We went to that party. It gave me a stomachache to see the stage again on television.
I came across an old blog post in my archives. A silly post, as usual. Mentioned the time Harley shit in her litterbox in front of him, and he about died. The story still makes me laugh.
I continuously remember everything happy. Everything fun. The beach, football at the park, our favorite townie bar in my old neighborhood. Why? At what point does that go away?
Because, honest to fucking god, it could've stopped yesterday. I'm not that damn person. That person who cries four months later about a book nerd alert. Only, dammit, clearly I am.
I don't understand how I can miss him now, given everything that I know. But I do so much, quite often. His companionship more than anything. Calling him. Hearing about his basketball game at the Y. Warming my feet up between the cushions of his couch while he played video games. His awkward little Christmas tree we picked out at Family Dollar. Everything that was normal. My friend.
Now there's nothing. Just silence. He remains as silent as if he (or I) never existed.
He certainly doesn't deserve any of this. I think I'm still processing this whole heartbreak concept. I don't appreciate that he was the first person to break my heart. Couldn't it have been someone else? And could it be a little less miserable, maybe?
I really don't spend my days dwelling on this. I don't hole up in my room and cry. Really, the only time it's affecting me are the times I come here to blog about it. Makes me feel better to write. Hence the blog.
Makes me realize what a baby I am. People deal with real tragedy every day, yet I here I sit, pouting about a boy. Perspective is nice. I'd rather take heartbreak over some of the alternatives.
But nonetheless, here I sit. Pouting. About a boy.