I woke up alone.
I wasn’t intending to, when I set out last night, but I can remember from my post yesterday that I probably just realized that I wanted to.
I broke up with the boy, and while there are obviously a lot more important things I should be doing (and have to do today, I should watch the time)… that’s what I’m going to talk about right now.
It’s impossible to date me, it’s not his fault. There are of course, several things that really are his fault, but I’m not talking to him right now (and not sure I’ll ever talk to him again), and so therefore rehashing that side of things is pointless.
I’m checking my grammar and proofreading each sentence as I go, what is going on. Usually I don’t catch a typo until the end, and usually I make a lot less typos. In addition to the artificial feel of beginning paragraphs with prepositions, I’m beginning to hate beginning paragraphs with conjunctions.
Last night the boy accused me of being pretentious by using big words. That was absolutely the last fucking straw for me, the absolute fucking last. I know how it looks. But (intentional) I am not once again going to make myself less for another random hick who judges the validity of the world and everything in it by how well *they* understand it, and how much *they* like it. Go fuck yourself.
There’s so much here, and none of it matters.
I had the most wonderful dream last night.
I was in a mall, the color scheme, dark distressed wood, fit the theme of our makeshift warehouse shopping conglomerate that we have in town, which I never go to because why the fuck would I. The layout looked like an airport mall that I had been in, most likely with my Father… there have been so many and they all look the same.
We, a bunch of people none of whom I explicitly know, but somehow I think we were just all waiting for the same connecting flight.
There were dogs sleeping around the center mannequins of a display1. Big, beautiful rottweilers. I remember reaching to pet the powerful wide head of one of them, he was tired and fairly ambivalent.
Not sure how or why, but I started walking, and eventually settled into a set of easy chairs outside the doors of one shop, which reminded me of a very dark cozy bar that we have in town, another place I never go to. I settled in, awkwardly facing a hipster couple that I do not know, which always happens at that bar and is one of the main reasons that I never go there despite the fact that they serve a great French 75.
Seated, a dog on a leash, led by a rather austere looking white haired gentleman2, began walking up. It was a black dog, unusual. It’s body was shaped like a pit bull, but it was a soft black. The ears had been cropped, and the face was long like a French bull dog. The began walking past, but as the dog passed I could see that the coat of the dog was so absolutely soft, like black brushed suede. The dog stayed behind, and I began petting it. It was so soft, and so comforting. I knelt down, and the dog placed his head right under my chin, I haven’t been able to truly hug a dog like that since mine died. I have not felt that good in such a long, long time.
I realized that this dog looked like the real life version of my favorite, only favorite, stuffed animal that I had when I was a kid. He’s still half eaten, boxed up in the basement, and probably exactly as soft as I remember. I should go get him.
I need a hug.1. There are, always a limited number of places dogs can go, and so they gather in the same place. I just realized that I barely pet the boy’s cat last night, I am sure she noticed. I suddenly feel terrible. He probably is too much of an asshole to even explain to her what happened. It’s probably happened before. 2. He was probably wearing a sweater vest. The boy has a sweatervest that he is remarkably proud of.
How is my coffee already cold.
I don’t know if it’s appropriate to feel as badly as I do right now. After all, I still have a whole other boyfriend that I’m also slowly growing to hate, and after all the benchmarks of when to end a relationship have passed. I remember the other night I stayed up the entire time, stomach in knots, imagining murdering him, unsure if I could make it through the night without either doing so, or throwing up.
And I remember swearing that I would never, ever, stay in a relationship like that again.
How many promises to myself will I break?