This weekend The Kid From Boston turned 25.  We talked.  Unfortunately, it was 3am and I had spent the night celebrating Oktoberfest at a local bar and, therefore, only remember snippets of the conversation.  Yesterday, I called to find out what words were exchanged, as the conversation was somewhat lengthy and I wanted to fill in the memory holes. 

“You spent the night crying and begging me to take you back.”

Oh.  Fucking.  Really.  I remember wanting to know why we couldn’t work out but I did not cry.  I rarely fucking cry.  Especially when drunk.  Odd that my makeup was still intact the next morning.  And I do not fucking beg.  But apparently that was the reality he wanted to tell me.  He then proceeded to harp on how unhealthy I am, questioning why I was unable to just move the fuck on. 

“Because just last week you said ‘I’m always going to love you and it sucks’ so why don’t you just tell me that you don’t love me anymore?  Why can’t you just end it with that like a normal ex and I will hate you and we will be properly dysfunctional.”

“Because I don’t know if I don’t.”

He doesn’t Fucking know.  As if it’s as trivial as whether or not he wants another slice of pizza.  He still says it sometimes, but he doesn’t fucking know if he believes it. 

And as quick as that uncertain statement, I am done.  I am done being pathetic, done being made the fool.  I am in love with someone that does not love me back.  But then, as of now, that’s done too.  Lightswitch: off.

And now, I will pretend that he doesn’t exist and the last six years never happened.  The only way I know how to cope.