breaking up and the x

a breath from the breathing

I’m lying on my parents’ living room floor with my chin on a crocheted pillow, a stomach full of caramel popcorn, and at least fourteen mosquito bites on my pudgy legs from this past Sunday at Hot Fiance’s house where we celebrated his mom’s birthday. Despite the itching and three days of spoiled-brat-part-time-jobbing this week, I think I’ll be okay. I think I can manage to smile a little more, laugh, even, at the pages and pages of journal entries I found time to peruse earlier about an overbearing boyfriend who thought he should come over right away to discuss his feelings about my Myspace conversations with Explorer earlier that year and the way I failed to mention how very close we were to being just slightly more than friends. Like, sorry, The X.

Years and years later, I’d think that was significant. And people need to know about…

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