Worry not, I am not going to bore you with inconsequential details of all the trivial things that I did or didn’t do in the past year; no insights about my cycles or anything of that sort, instead this is more like a summary for myself, and if you find that too much to read, then hop, skip and jump away from this page at once. Not to sound dramatic or melodramatic, it has been an entire year now since Ass Wipe asked me out saying he wanted to date me. For those of you who are a little daft, Ass Wipe is the obvious nick name I have bestowed upon the shit head who is responsible for some of my worst moments on this planet.
Like every other damsel who reads historical romances (guilty!) I had envisioned the whole knight-in-shining-armor scene unfolding just for my benefit. Instead what I got was a douche-in-skinny-jeans scene that more like beat the living day lights out of me instead of sweep me off of my feet. He was no tall, dark, handsome prince; instead, he was average built, fair (yeah, my bad), with average looks. Then what was it that attracted me to him? Well, it was nothing other than his big, massive, huge, wait for it, brain! Sorry to disappoint, but yeah, it was his intelligence and wit that attracted me to him in the first place.
For four years I put up with all his crap just to be friends with someone whom I thought was a match for my intelligence for a change. At the peril of sounding immodest, almost all the men I have ever met have simply bored me within the first five sentences out of their mind; and trust me I am worst than Sherlock shooting at the wall when bored. For the first time I had found someone who was smart, witty and could hold a conversation without referring to something tardy or making me feel like an object.
However, it was obviously too good to be true, as Ass Wipe thought it was his birthright to be with a girl who looked like something ripped out of a Ralph Lauren brochure. Can you beat that? He himself looked like something puberty chewed and spat out, with his skinny physique and average height, thought that he was automatically entitled to a smoking hottie without looking like one himself. The nerve! Well, I may not be a hottie in the regular sense, but I have a rack that can stop oncoming traffic before the traffic cop can so much as spell the word STOP. Despite that if he wants to hang out at a tennis court, I prefer to leave him to his chosen misery.
Things went south and one day, after I struck a few well delivered verbal blows to his bloated ego, he disappeared, just stopped talking altogether. It is beyond fathomable human imagination the kind of hurt and bewilderment he left in his wake. The confusion and anger along with self loathing and hurt is indescribable, so I am not even going to try. All I will say is that if I could watch him burn alive right before my eyes, screaming in agony, it wouldn’t even measure up to a fraction of the pain and misery the Ass Wipe put me through.
It took months of support and love from my never wavering girlfriends who tirelessly and patiently let me vent, dragged me out of my own personal hell hole of self depreciation and made me survive, live one day after the other. They never let go, never gave up. For all of that and more, I will be eternally grateful to them. What was my fault that the Ass Wipe refused to take responsibility for his words and actions? Did I hold a gun to his dick and make him ask me out? Nope. Did I threaten to break off all contact unless he dated me saying that I couldn’t be ‘just friends’ anymore? Nope. Then why?
Anyhow, all of that is behind me now. Some bit still remains, memories have an ugly way of rearing their heads and annoying you at the worst possible time, but sometimes you just have to tell them to STFU and stay put. Today I have a couple of blogs that are more like my little babies to me, TV shows are my go to drug, and books are my never failing companions. People around me say that leave the Ass Wipe to Karma. The hell I am going to let Karma do my dirty work for me! And who do you think taught Karma to be such a bitch in the first place?
I can love a man who is a borderline narcissist, who can be self centered and at times behave like a douche, because come on, don’t we all? But I could never love a coward who refuses to take responsibility for his words and actions, deflecting blame so that he can clamber onto the self-righteous high horse and gallop off cruelly without so much as a backward glance; at least, never again!