I feel I owe you, my nonexistent audience, an explanation.

This summer was spent getting out of a five-year relationship with The Kid From Boston.  I say getting out of as if it were a highly dangerous situation and through my own wits, I narrowly escaped.  That ground-level detonation?  dude, so close.  That hydrogen blimp?  phew! thank GOD I escaped that one.

Because it’s easier to spin my linguistic phrasing than to admit how incredibly heartbroken I am.  COMPLETELY heartbroken.  I didn’t know it was possible to continuously hurt this much (yes, at least it’s only an emotional pain, I acknowledge the difference).  In a detached effed-up sort of way, the omnipresent pain and I are buddies of sorts.  We hang out, we’re tight.  Probably bonded by our mutual interest in brooding, retail therapy and red wine.

And yes, I understand that I am not the first one to go through the pain of a broken heart.  I’m not that narcissistic.  But … but it’s my first one, I’m devastated, and fuck you, this is my blog, I can be narcissistic if I want. 

  

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