What I would have titled this blog had I felt it were appropriate to use the word “fuck” in titles.

It would have been called…

“Your new girlfriend’s name is fucking stupid.”

But if I intend to become a literary genius (which I don’t), I must follow the rules. Dickens did not call his masterpiece, “Great Fucking Expectations” for a reason. It was probably his douchebag publisher’s choice… because Charlie does seem like someone who would use the word fuck regularly in his daily vernacular. Maybe not. Maybe Hemingway?

The internet is a dangerous thing. Especially when you are going through something as monumental as your 30th birthday. I debated getting a tattoo… something simple… like a fire breathing dragon on my back. I already dyed my hair dark so that was out. I could have had a nervous breakdown but I don’t know if my insurance covers overnight stays in the loony bin. So I decided to embrace thirty and finally act it. So since I am entering what I consider to be my first “Adult” decade, I decided to do the “adult thing” and give myself a mature birthday gift: the gift of letting go.

I should have just bought myself a pair of nice shoes… because it didn’t go quite as smoothly as I had planned.

A brief recap for you all: Last spring (of 2011… I blame the entire situation on me still being in my 20’s), I fell madly in love with someone. I typically don’t give my heart easily, but this one had me believing in love at first sight. Normally, the thought of love at first sight makes me want to vomit all over the floor. But for the five months we were involved, my life was a legit romantic comedy. After our first date (five hour first date… by the way), I hopped in the jitney to head back to East Hampton. I plopped myself in a window seat smiling from ear to ear and watched him walk away down 68th st. And before he crossed the street and out of view, I watched him turn on his heels and look back at me in the jitney, his hands in his pockets and beaming a smile that made me melt. Then he spun around on his heels, jumped up and clicked his heels together… and disappeared. It was that kind of love. That kind of romantic comedy.

Here, I’ll just give you my Louboutins to throw up on.

Then timing, baggage, angry family members, and numerous life circumstances got in the way. And my romantic comedy became a horror film. And a breakup ensued. And then came the self imposed purgatory/pining. And so after a year of purgatory, pining, and too much time looking pensive (I think RomCom owes me botox for my forehead lines), I decided when I hit 30 that it was time to let go.

But like all scorned ex-lovers, in order to forget one must first find out. I mean, you want to make sure they are ok, see if they have tragically died of some rogue STD, or married a really ugly stripper named Candy (because that would be justification/vindication).  And the internet leaves us capable of more stalking than we thought possible. I am no longer friends with RomCom on facebook… but private things aren’t so private with timeline and I was able to tell that he had recently friended someone who mysteriously had the same cover photo as him. Awwww… they both like fields covered in yellow flowers (insert more vomiting). Also, we have chatted via phone and text twice in the recent past, and he mentioned he was going to Alberta… twice. And who the hell would go to Alberta twice in two months if they weren’t getting ass while they were there. No offense to my maple flag friends up north, but take one visit to Alberta and you will understand why this is virtually impossible unless you like fly-fishing… A LOT.

So after a grand total of 86 seconds of stalking I found out that this girl is almost exactly like me. Except for she doesn’t eat meat and is a Cannuck. She has a blog where she talks about being a humor writer and a model. She interviews herself for her blog… which could be funny but it really just reads as “deperately wanting attention.” A vegan in leather pants. They could be pleather… but at least I am not a hypocrite. Also, friends don’t let friends wear pleather or leather pants (unless it is 1995 and you are on the TV show “Friends” and then you can wear leather pants). And since I found this self-marketing marvel a few weeks ago, I actually have been feeling better. Is this how letting go starts? Am I in the middle? Please tell me the end is near.

Thanks for listening. That was cathartic. And I am getting back to my roots and writing funny anecdotes about life. I used to write funny emails when I was in college. But now I can have my very own funny blog where I write things of substance a hilarity. Fair warning though… there will be no staged interview. No pictures of my modeling days. No cute Cosmo stories about how what’s in your purse defines you. Because I am not as desperate as…

Gigi.

I told you her name was fucking stupid.

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