The
epitaph on the grave she buried me goes like this: Here lies the control
freak, self-absorbed SOB, egoistical commitment-phobe, snob, sloth sleazebag
and a worthless excuse of masculinity.
Well,
maybe I have exaggerated a bit, but the hyperbole is just the second edition of
what actually she did (not) say before she walked out one me for a barely
legal, over self-absorbed Jay-Z wannabe trapped and confused in the limbo of
whether to be a man or forever a boy.
I guess
now the only thing that we share is lifespans in futility alone, history on
(un)fair(l)y tale and big screen love
written down tattered books of breakups history.
However,
I can’t prefix whatever she used to be to me with ‘ex’. She’s still dear and
close to me, and I hope she’d come back with tears in her eyes. I’d gloat for
old times’ sake.
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