By not being on Facebook, I’m robbing past and future exes of the satisfaction of defriending me
I’ve been dumped in an email, and now I’m dishing it on my blog. When I publish this draft, I’ll log in to Twitter to broadcast my new post. And maybe someone will retweet it, or even put this as a Facebook status. Then others might “like” it. Or “wink” at it. Or “molest” it. Or whatever users of the site that I refuse to join do. At any rate, this must be proof that social media is fostering relationships and bringing us all closer together.
The soundtrack to all my breakups has been Lucinda Williams‘ raw, heartbreaky twang, so at the last minute, I bought a ticket to her concert at the House of Blues in Boston the other night. A sweaty middle-aged couple, both at least 100 pounds overweight, were dancing to my left for the duration. If you call that dancing. It was frenetic — jumping, gyrating and jiggling with no reverence for the beat. His hands were up her blouse for the whole show; hers were clenching his butt cheeks. Neither was fazed by their lewd public spectacle. My first thought was how lucky they are to have each other. They appeared to be a perfect pairing. If those two spazzes can find love, there’s hope for us all. My second thought was that they probably have really jerky sex. But I have been thinking a lot lately about jerks.
Lindsay and I connected through this blog. Despite the distance between us, the spark was immediate. We met for the first time in December, and she seemed too good to be true. In the end, she was. Over the course of the past five months, she emailed me every morning and I wrote back every night, so we’d both always start our days with notes from the other. I woke up two weeks ago to an email uninviting me to Toronto because we’re over. You think you know an anonymous person from the internet.
I’m not sure when it became acceptable to dump someone you’re sleeping with in an email, but it has happened to me twice in the past year. You could say I’ve developed a bit of a complex about it. These days, when I log into my account, my blood pressure skyrockets as I hold my breath and peer through one eye at my inbox, fearing yet another electronic ending. I’ll probably withhold my email address in future trysts to challenge wannabe exes to find more creative ways to jump ship. At any rate, this seems to explain why Teva and Isabel, who have been historically slow adopters of new technology, have stuck by me for almost eight years. That, or Stockholm syndrome.
When Lindsay was last in Boston, we said “I love you” for the first time. One of us meant it. Everything seemed to be going better than I could have hoped for or imagined. It’s hard to fathom how the woman who twice boarded an international flight to be with me, who mailed a present to my cats, who always pleaded for 10 more minutes to cuddle couldn’t be bothered to give me the courtesy of a phone call. How the woman who talks, writes and advises about the power of positive thinking, giving what you get and opening your heart closed herself off so cruelly and coldly. How the woman who tried to reimburse me when my glasses toppled off the bed and snapped in half never offered to cover the cost of my canceled plane ticket to Canada.
Email has many uses. Corporate correspondence. Getting back in touch with a long-lost friend. Telling your mother to stop gchatting you at work. And, apparently, fucking over the person you’re fucking.
And she still hasn’t called. Not once. And I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive her for that.
Aside from writing about the split in somewhat vague terms here, which I have to do to maintain some semblance of sanity, I took the high road. I wished her well. I told her to take care. It’s the only road I’ve ever known. The high road is poorly named, though, because I feel undeniably low. And no one’s slipped me any drugs. And I can’t stop humming Whitesnake. Like a drifter I was born to walk alone … with cats.
I haven’t even had any booze. I’ve been thinking about drinking but can’t seem to muster the energy. Instead, I’ve just been pondering the irony of recently being gifted pint glasses that feature images of Teva and Isabel and the name of the blog I write about my single life, hand-painted by my artsy ex-girlfriend Vicky. Cheers.
I am, however, drunk on disappointment in humanity. The internet and social media have turned our massive planet into a small world. After all, the web not only facilitated my falling for a girl hundreds of miles away, but its efficiency, ease of use and speed made her feel closer than she actually was. But that false reality comes at a cost. As plugged in as we all have become, it is now easier than ever to sign off on our relationships, with as little as a text, tweet or IM. Breaking up just isn’t that hard to do anymore.
Our brave new world is cultivating a culture of convenience — and cowardice. We’re so tapped into the internet that we’ve lost sight of the series of tubes that runs through our bodies and makes us warm to the touch. “Touch” is just the name of our iPods now. We write on “walls” instead of knocking them down. We “friend” and “follow” instead of fraternize. We email instead of call.
In other words, we “like” instead of love.
P.S. Please keep the trash-talking about Lindsay to a minimum in the comments section. But you are more than welcome to send me that shit directly.
P.P.S. After my mom highly praised my dirty valentines as “not as bad as I thought they’d be,” she inspired me to start selling the original three, as well as five new designs. If you hate pussy jokes, then you’ll love to hate my Zazzle shop.
P.P.P.S. In the wake of my broken ass, which makes it incredibly painful to sit at the computer, and my broken heart, which makes it nearly impossible to stop stuffing ice cream into my mouth, I’ll probably be stepping away from this site for a while. It’ll be like all the other times when I’m a shitty blogger and don’t post for a really long time, just more official. Thank you for bearing with me. Or catting with me. Caring, let’s say.