Page 39 of Gin and Lava

After all, he broke up with me.

Aaaaaand there goes my monkey brain clicking its way through the ticker-tape of possible things I did wrong. It’s always more than happy to go ape-shit with the question: why wasn’t I good enough?

I’m not pretty enough.

I don’t fit his perfect doctor life.

I’m not good in bed.

I’m clingy.

I chew with my mouth open.

Thinking like this is a vicious cycle, but I can’t stop falling down this one-way Alice-in-Wonderland-rabbit-hole of self-deprecation that leads to eating an entire pound of chocolate.

The truth is, it’s probably all the subtle things he couldn’t quantify. And somehow, they built upon each other, culminating in his “we should see other people” and “I’m too busy for a relationship” speech. And yes, there were a few other things in there about me being too clingy and needy, but I really did give him space as best I could. I was always walking on egg shells to make sure I didn’t overwhelm him.

Yes, he’s a doctor.

Yes, he works all the time.

But even doctors fall in love, and want wives, and houses, and white picket fences. Right?

No matter how hard I worked to look the right way, or say the right things, or create the perfect image … somewhere, I slipped up. Somewhere my Mercer-Texas-white-trash-poverty bloodline reared its ugly head, and I bet he could smell it on the air like a bloodhound looking for a reason to walk out.

Maybe I came across as too desperate, like my mom.

Or maybe I got too comfortable, and he could feel me faking it. I’m not just talking orgasms—because yes, I definitely faked orgasms plenty of times. Male egos are fragile, especially when said male ego is used to being good at everything like Sam is. I’m sure it was other things too: the fake smiles at the fundraising galas (I was getting better at those), or the stolen milkshakes between kale casseroles (Wow, you baked me green vomit for dinner. Thanks, babe).

He told me so many times that we were perfect for each other, and I believed him.

We were heading straight for happily ever after, when—Boom!—he dropped the let’s-see-other-people bombshell.

And now, Esme wants me to show up to Shauri’s wedding and pretend I’m living my best life without him? Yes, I understand how the cliché show-your-ex-what-he’s-missing tactic is supposed to work, I just …

I miss him.

He reeled me in, and I completely bought in to the idea that we would grow old together. How am I supposed to face him and pretend things are amazing on my end? Seriously, the best thing that’s happened to me in the last six months has been bouncing on Mason’s cock. I’m not about to show up at cocktail hour and open with, “Hey Sam, it turns out you never really got me off. But don’t worry, I now understand that’s because you need another few inches and some extra girth. Oh, and it turns out dirty talk makes me so hot, I’m ravenous to take that huge cock you don’t have. How’s work at the hospital? Saving lives and making a difference? I bet that’s super rewarding.”

Fuck me.

In fact,that’snot even working. I’ve been extra horny after my night with Mason. Everything’s making me peckish: the shape of fire hydrants, the size of cucumbers at the grocery store. I probably have a mental disorder because every time I look at the clouds all I see are giant penises.

I’ve tried to get some relief from my favorite battery-operated boyfriend (a consolation prize I bought myself when rebound sex wasn’t getting the lady parts a buzzing) but no dice! It’s like my vagina’s become a snob and she won’t even entertain the idea of a vibrator. She’s had the good stuff, and now she won’t settle for anything less.

Plus, vibrators don’t talk back … not the way that Mason does.

So, I’ve been making jewelry.

Alotof jewelry.

It’s the only thing that’s been getting me out of my head and able to ignore the nagging feeling between my legs. I’ve been twisting wires, and soldering metal, and letting loose. I’ve been staying up late experimenting with new designs, but all of the new work is … messy. It’s wild shapes and unexpected lines. It doesn’t have the careful placement and classical compositions of my previous pieces. It’s primitive, like a child made it. Frankly, the pieces look awful—organic and free—but completely unsellable. Like taking a crappy child’s-version of a Picasso and dangling it from a chain and claiming it’s fancy.

But the alternative is cyber stalking my ex, or masturbating without coming.

Yeah, my life is awesome.

I can’t wait to go to Shauri’s wedding and brag all about it.

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