Hola

So, where were we? This morning George Michael stole a throw pillow off the couch while I was in the shower. He smuggled it under the bed and basically ate and ingested 80% of it as I blowdried my hair straight (I have more curly hair up there than an entire parking lot full of unkempt Panic fans has "down there". Did you get it?? Hmmm?? I'm taking about pubic hair. They have major pubic hair. Like, it starts at their belly button and goes to their knees. Trust me on this...I climbed out of that mess a time or twelve in my twenties.) Anyway, this is how I cracked the case of the Missing Pillow a few minutes later. 

That's a large piece of synthetic stuffing trapped in George Michael's beard. And this is how the majority of my personal possessions meet their death. George's obsession with eating everything except dog food has made for many an inconvenience and embarrassing moment. There was the time I had to take him to the vet because a plastic Halloween spider ring got stuck in his ass, or the first slumber party I had with my most recent special friend when we found his underwear shredded beneath the kitchen table the next morning, or the night he puked up a piece of boot and a tampon wrapper that belonged to a dinner guest I was hosting. The list is endless and mostly too inappropriate to put on this good 'ol family friendly blog. The point is, George is actively trying to destroy my life. And like most men I allow into my home, I continue to let him do so. You don't have to give me a lesson in the dynamics of a healthy relationship. I'm the walking handbook, baby. 

Segueway.

I'm done, everyone. Done with dating. You heard right. Never again during my ride on this earth will I subject myself to another miserable date which leads to another dysfunctional and crazy boyfriend which leads to another 2-4 months of intense break-up daylight drinking in last night's mascara which leads to another miserable fucking date. I'm not bitter. I'm tired. And don't tell me about your relationship and how happy you are because guess what? I don't believe you. If you think you are now, let's touch base again in six months. I can already tell you everything you'll say and everything you secretly think and everything you fear will eventually pull the rug out. There is no need for us to all gather at the neighborhood bistro for Sunday brunch while you delicately pick at your fruit cup in a J. Crew sundress and pat your boyfriend on his seersucker suited knee and talk to me about what y'all just picked up at Crate and Barrel yesterday and your plans to plant tomatoes and squash in the garden this summer because I'm not buying it. Behind closed doors you two are just as whacked as I am. And I know this because I've turned that same key myself. The difference between you and me is that I'm done fooling. It's hard enough trying to trick the outside world into believing I'm a normal, sound minded woman who never forgets to fully remove her pantyhose before passing out or has just mended her 6th iPhone (three of the previous having fallen in toilets, one left in a cab, the final peed on by a cat) with 7 pieces of scotch tape or still eats 30 cent ramen noodles for dinner at least three nights a week because I'd rather spend money on a hot pink mini sequin dress to wear while I watch tv and curl my hair. Seriously. I'm not lying. 

It's been a full time job trying to do normal. There ain't no way I can swing it for two whole people again. I'm a mess. A total mess. And I think I'll just stick to cleaning up after myself from here on out. Hiding your garbage so we both can play cute at a cocktail party for a few hours is more than I can do anymore, old man. 

A few weeks ago I reluctantly accepted a drink invitation from a guy who asked me out while I was shopping one afternoon. He got my number when he gave me a rice krispy treat (I wish I were making this up. I do tricks for treats).  After two drinks and some polite and boring conversation, I put a $20 on the bar for my tab, a $10 so he could buy another for himself, and told him I needed to go home so I could take off my pants, get in my bed and watch Murder She Wrote on my computer while George Michael likely destroyed said pants somewhere nearby. That plan sounded so much more enjoyable than dancing the exhausted jig for one more painful minute. And with that, I left.

I know we're supposed to be funny round these parts. But in case you haven't gathered, I'm in the midst of the dreadful break-up. Not bitter. Just tired. And sad. Once again. Sigh...

Let's all go listen to Cults - Go Outside and cheer up, shall we? Yes, let's do that. 

Peace.