Jealous of Our Ha-Ha

For some time now Neely has been harping on me to start a blog. I resisted her labored insistence for several reasons. Chief among these is that Neely is not “The Boss of Me.” Had she ever held that title she relinquished it after we broke up by fucking every male I know and sending me proof via camera phone on our anniversary. At the suggestion of my virtual group therapy group those pictures were incorporated into a collage that I subsequently burned in an ultimately unsuccessful purification rite. I say “ultimately unsuccessful” because I still feel dirty.

Of course Neely routinely relished in my forced attestations that she was “TBOM” while we were still together. The most memorable occassion being to an audience of incredulous guests at my grandmother’s 90th birthday party, at whom she snarled “you’re next, bitches,” as I struggled in vain to free myself from her choke hold. Now, from the relative safety of Chicago, I stand firm on this point: I am my own man. Less virile for my association with Neely, I’ll concede, but by God what’s left of me is my own.

Nana escaped the party unscathed by Neely’s viscious tantrum that day. The same cannot be said for five bottles of Roberto Mendage pinot grigio: three consumed without the cumbersome formality of a wine glass, two hurled at a group of unsuspecting children bobbing for apples, “like a bunch of fucking pussies.” We are grateful that Cousin Jill, now 12, has recovered much of the sight in her left eye.

There was a point not so long ago that the uninvited recollection of Nana’s birthday would result in violent sobbing and spontaneous ejaculation. Now I merely shudder at this and other tortuous memories from my time with Neely, and rummage blindly in my pocket for some pill that might turn the stabbing pain of regret into a muted pang of indifference. This, I am told by the few of Neely’s surviving ex-boyfriends in my virtual group therapy group, is probably the most I can hope for.

And so here is entry number one. Now, Dearest Neely, might you see fit to let me live what remains of my life in peace? I give up already. You win. Stop mailing me used condoms and Planned Parenthood invoices. I get it. You’re over me.

Charles, must you persist in your feeble attempts to woo me with your rambling and sophomoric emails? It is my feeling that a four-year relationship with you is a more than sufficient tour of duty in the Military of Feigned Interest in Charles’ Humor. Fortunately for you, I still harbor just enough pity for you that I am willing to believe there are others out there who might care about what you have to say, and to offer you this public forum in which to seek acceptance. Should the masses flock to your musings, I may consider giving you the opportunity to take me back.