she said that i should put myself in her shoes. then i'd understand. so i did.

i am a hip, 26 year old woman. i'm pretty but not cute, smart but not intelligent, coy but not subtle, enthusiastic but not gung ho. as of fifteen minutes ago, i'm single. this last fact is the only one of the bunch that has changed in the past 6 years. not that i've been with the same guy--HIM--for that long, but i've been a serial dater, and my last relationship was also my longest: 1 year, 10 months, 3 days. and yes, i had to work that out in my head. i don't count my days, my pennies, or my lovers, so don't ask for answers to any questions that involve any of those things.

so, long story short: i'm available. and though i'm not determined to stay that way forever, i'm not gonna fall for the first hot guy that comes along, like i normally do. at least i'm gonna try not to.

i'm standing on the corner of Bloor and Bathurst. my ex is sitting in a restaurant about 100 feet away. he wanted to finish his salad. i wanted to get the fuck out of there. i still love him too much to watch him eat walnuts and sections of orange while trying to hold back tears.

i won't say that our breakup was completely out of the blue.

i'd seen it coming for about 4 months. i just didn't see it coming tonight. i'd ordered the duck, for chrissakes. if i was expecting to be dumped i wouldn't have ordered something that was so obviously dead. i would have gone organic or ordered a gazpacho or maybe just a glass of red wine.

so there i was, ripping flesh from carcass when he dropped the bomb. it was less than 17 minutes ago that he said it but i'm in a bit of a daze so i can't even remember what it was that he said. how he put it to me. dobbs never went with anything cliche so i'm certain it wasn't "i'm just not happy" or "i think we should just be friends." no doubt it'll come to me in the coming days.

he is a writer. both the worst and best kind of man to fall for. the longer you stay together the more you wonder whether it was his words or him that you were in love with. i have this theory that if you fall for a writer because of his words, over time you will grow to hate them. the opposite is also true. hate his writing, fall for him, and six months later you'll be calling his slasherfest horror novel the next Dracula or him the next Bram Stoker when the fucker's really a dry Dean R. Koontz.

am i just a cynic? fuck no. i believe in optimism as a revolutionary act. i have, however, just been dumped. you'll have to cut me some slack.

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