Screw, Marry, Kill

I have decided that this is not only my new favorite meme, but also my motto in life. Screw him, marry him, then kill him. Some may just get screwed, and some may get killed.

Wait…what?

I am sitting in bed and Stephen King’s miniseries “The Stand” is playing in the background. I mention this because I want to apologize in advance if I suddenly comment on the show instead of staying on track with the writing. In order to not confuse you all, I shall  use this * symbol, and my notes will appear at the bottom of the post. Thank you.

I have been forty-three hours smoke-free. I haven’t had a cigarette since five o’clock Friday evening*, and all in all, I am doing fairly well with this. I hate to admit it, but I am glad that Corey, the roommate that also smokes, is not here this weekend, as that’s kind of our “routine,” if you will–Saturdays and Sundays are usually spent going outside every hour on the hour to “let the dogs out,” which is legitimate, but this also gives us the chance to smoke like fire fiends, which we do. It is not unusual for me to puff through a pack and a half a day during the weekend, and that my friends, is ridic. No wonder I can’t friggin’ breathe**. So without him here, not smoking has been much easier. Sorry, Corn, but it has.

I have also decided I am going to be single-handedly funding the Skittles corporation, as when the urge to go out and buy a pack of smokes has come up, I grab a few Skittles. Delicious distraction! This will also cause me to gain elebenty gillion pounds as I’m pretty sure I’ve put away roughly 1.5 million Skittles over the course of two days…okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. I haven’t eaten that many, but damn it, if I had that many, I would. So, if you want to support me in my effort, I suggest you send me Skittles. Please.****

*Laura San DiGiacomo has buckets and buckets of hair in this series. Wasn’t she the chick in “Just Shoot Me?” I’ll have to Google that.

**Oh shit! The dude that voices Patrick on SpongeBob is in this!

***Know how I can tell I need to get laid? When watching Gary Sinise and Molly Ringwald make out turns me on…this is how I know I need to get laid…or I need a psych evaluation.

****This movie is just…awful. Truly awful. When will they make a decent adaptation of a King novel? I know I have gone on about this topic before several times, but the more supernatural his story is, the worse it is as a movie. I’m looking at YOU, Dreamcatchers.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Hello. This is me, twenty-four hours later. I stopped writing in the midst of the earlier post, as The Stand was just too darn silly for me to ignore. Apologies.

Much has transpired in 1,440 minutes. I smoked. Just one cigarette, but I smoked. I was doing so well, too. Three days doesn’t seem like that long to go without nicotine coursing your veins, but trust me–it is.

I got an email from Him today. That’s why I smoked. Now, He and I have a very…peculiar relationship after our impending divorce. Things were tense for a few months after, as they are often wont to be, but we progressed to friends. Actually, it was quite like the months before him moving out–without all the resentment and ill-will, that is. But now…now it’s encroaching upon anger and resentment territory again, and here’s why: Dumbfuck decided to quit his job about two months ago…without having the foresight to have another one lined up. So. His stunning lack of funds has become his non-existent lack of funds, which is proving to be quite troublesome to me, as we are still on the same cell phone plan. Yes, yes, I know. I’ve already gotten an earful from my father about this. Goddamn parents, being right about shit. Really fucking annoying sometimes. I digress.

Dumbfuck has no job. Without job, we cannot pay me back for his share of the phone bill, which, I simply cannot afford to pay by myself. I have a freaking car payment and insurance  along with my other monthly obligations, motherdumbfuck. Jesus christ…I should actually be thanking him, though. Why? Well, thanking him for reminding me WHY WE ARE GETTING DIVORCED IN THE FIRST PLACE. SWEET CHRIST ON THE RIGHT HAND OF GOD THE FATHER ALMIGHTY.

Anyway, I’ve sent Dumbfuck random texts over the course of the past few months–nothing major, or harassing by way of getting money–mostly goofy texts, like “aw dude, I’m watching a movie that Mr. Oizo did the soundtrack to!” shit like that. No response. Oookaaayyyy…yesterday, whilst out on the town procuring nourishment, I happened to notice he was leaving the neighbor’s house as I was pulling up to my house. I pretended not to notice him, but I did. This sent me into a semi-rage.

Then today, I got an email from him. I had forgotten I had sent him some of my stories I had written for him to read. Stupid mistake on my part, and his email proved I was correct in this thought. He was never supportive of my writing when we were together. Ever. I would have him read my stories, and he’d feign some sort of interest, but he was just being polite. I don’t know why I thought this would change, and it hasn’t. His reply to me was so condescending and my earlier semi-rage turned into straight up wanting to kick his goofy ass.

But if I think about it, I’m not mad at him, per se. I’m mad at myself for letting him still affect me over a year after he has been gone from my life. I know what you’re all probably screaming at me: GET HIM OFF YOUR CELL PLAN. I know this is what needs to be done, but I also know that if I do so, he’ll be without a phone as he probably can’t afford to support his own coverage. Big fucking deal, right? Well…yes, but you see, I suffer from “toobigofaheartitis” and even though the man ripped my heart out, took a steaming dump on it, then haphazardly shoved it back into my chest, I can’t do it. I mean, I will…probably…eventually…once it makes me mad enough to do so…which, if he keeps up this retardation, will probably be next week some time.

Gack.

Hi. I’m Erin, and I’m a doormat. Come on in. Don’t forget to wipe your feet ALL OVER MY GODDAMN FACE.

And this, ladies and jelly spoons, is why I smoked. And am drinking a too tall glass of whiskey and diet cola now. He is inadvertently killing me because I am intentionally trying to kill myself by lung cancer and/or kidney disease.

However, there is light at the end of the tunnel. In an unrelated/yet oddly related email from one of my dearest friends, she said, and I quote, “Don’t let someone else’s actions drive you crazy and hinder your progress. What do you have control over? You. You control Erin and her mind. If you sense your mind going down an angry path, stop and enjoy a butterfly. Color. Masturbate.” Best goddamn advice I’ve gotten in a long time, and I will heed it, because it really is solid advice.

So, with that, I’m done.

Stay tuned for the next exciting post. I’m excited. You should be, too.

In the words of the immortal Red Green:

Keep your stick on the ice.

E.E.

 

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One thought on “Screw, Marry, Kill

  1. He didn’t make you smoke.
    He doesn’t have that control.
    He’s a dumbass.
    A heartbreaking dumbass.
    Who knows you’re nice.
    And may be calling sexlines.
    On your dime.
    (Don’t look to confirm that if it helps you to think it true.)

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