This past weekend, my friend celebrated her birthday. Crazy hosted it at his parent’s cottage and a group of our communal friends went along. I didn’t go and wasn’t invited for obvious reasons.
As I’m checking my Facebook page, I see she was tagged in a series of photos from her birthday weekend. Inevitably, there will be some that show up of Crazy, but I click on the link, anyway. Whatever doesn’t kill me can only make me vomit.
Skimming through them, I see a couple of images of Crazy. In each picture there’s a guy. His guy. I know this because I’ve seen him before in another photo album, and since his circle of friends doesn’t accept new members into their clique, my assumption is justified.
He’s nondescript and faint. Beige and boring. Resembles me in no way, whatsoever. Basically, this victim is someone who can let Crazy be the centre of attention (which is the point for someone who is selfish and self-centred).
I feel a pang. I hate
that pang. That pang means there’s still a feeling there. True, it’s not as intense as it once was, but it’s still there. You never want an ex to do better and be happier than you, especially if they hurt you in immeasurable ways. The promise of karma allows me to sleep at night.
People tell me to leave it alone and to stop torturing myself, and I know it's within my abilities to do it. But, what they don't want to realize is you can’t forget the past, no matter how much you pretend it never happened.
Quickly, I scan through the rest of the images and then close the web browser.
Whatever. It was going to happen eventually. At least I have the comfort of two things: He’s going to get his heart broken, and no matter what anybody thinks about me, I'm a lot hotter than the new guy.