Fruit of the Devil
If a implies b, then not a implies not b. Follow me? If ignorance is bliss than knowledge is misery. Since I'm not terribly close with most of my lovers, I generally I have no idea what they do after we stop sleeping together. Are they married? Are they now gay? Are they man whores in other cities? Are they in jail? I have no idea and I like it that way. The minute the condom comes off for the last time, they disappear into the Bermuda Triangle of Former Flames. Because I don't know what they're up to, I either create post-me lives for them or stop thinking of them altogether. It's a comfort because, if I care enough to wonder about them, I can choose to believe that they are infinitely less happy than they were in my bed. I can also choose to believe that they are fucking women far less attractive and more boring than I am.
Unfortunately, this same formula doesn't work with ex-boyfriends. No matter how hard I try to keep them there, they just won't stay in the Fuck It Bucket. Either they purposely crawl out to send me engagement notices and photos of their spawn, or worse, I pull them out.
Thanks to the miracle of the interwebs, I no longer have to endure the awkwardness that comes with calling up old boyfriends to find out what they're doing and get misery fix. Social networking sites, though helpful for stock piling drunken pictures of yourself, are a nightmare for those who, like me, can't turn down the fruit of knowledge. I wish I didn't know that I had been replaced and yet I can't stop myself from clicking open the floodgates.
At about 6:15 this morning just after the day's very first cigarette, I decided to check up on Disingenuous. I didn't bother to read any of the drivel he's posted, but scroll right to the information I dread but am dying to know: relationship status. And there it is in all it's completely unavoidable splendor--In A Relationship.
As Satan's preferred networking site, Myspace allows me to see a boy who couldn't commit committed to someone else. Why stop the fun there? Scroll over to the right and I see how far down I am in the Top 8. Before you judge me for acting like a 15 year old for even caring about this nonsense, stop and ask yourself if you wouldn't do exactly the same thing. I'll wait.
Glad you're back with me. Not only can I see that I've been demoted, but since Myspace lacks anything resembling a soul, I can actually look at my replacement. Why, oh why did I do this to myself?!? I don't need to know who she is or what she looks like. Knowing will only cause me to spiral into self-deprecation and agonize over the ways in which she is superior to me. Tell me that I stopped there. Please.
Several hours of On Demand and half a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch later, I wish I had stopped. Why does she have to be so thin or so cute? Why does she have to have perfect, straight, blond hair? Why does she have to be 22? Wait just a tick. Back up there. 22, you say? And in college? At this point, I can't help but laugh. The thought of a grown man (over 30 makes you grown) dating, not fucking mind you, a college student is ludicrous. She may be better than me in every other way but he will still be fucking her on a twin size bed with a mortified roommate five feet away. That knowledge takes at least a little of the misery out of it.
Unfortunately, this same formula doesn't work with ex-boyfriends. No matter how hard I try to keep them there, they just won't stay in the Fuck It Bucket. Either they purposely crawl out to send me engagement notices and photos of their spawn, or worse, I pull them out.
Thanks to the miracle of the interwebs, I no longer have to endure the awkwardness that comes with calling up old boyfriends to find out what they're doing and get misery fix. Social networking sites, though helpful for stock piling drunken pictures of yourself, are a nightmare for those who, like me, can't turn down the fruit of knowledge. I wish I didn't know that I had been replaced and yet I can't stop myself from clicking open the floodgates.
At about 6:15 this morning just after the day's very first cigarette, I decided to check up on Disingenuous. I didn't bother to read any of the drivel he's posted, but scroll right to the information I dread but am dying to know: relationship status. And there it is in all it's completely unavoidable splendor--In A Relationship.
As Satan's preferred networking site, Myspace allows me to see a boy who couldn't commit committed to someone else. Why stop the fun there? Scroll over to the right and I see how far down I am in the Top 8. Before you judge me for acting like a 15 year old for even caring about this nonsense, stop and ask yourself if you wouldn't do exactly the same thing. I'll wait.
Glad you're back with me. Not only can I see that I've been demoted, but since Myspace lacks anything resembling a soul, I can actually look at my replacement. Why, oh why did I do this to myself?!? I don't need to know who she is or what she looks like. Knowing will only cause me to spiral into self-deprecation and agonize over the ways in which she is superior to me. Tell me that I stopped there. Please.
Several hours of On Demand and half a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch later, I wish I had stopped. Why does she have to be so thin or so cute? Why does she have to have perfect, straight, blond hair? Why does she have to be 22? Wait just a tick. Back up there. 22, you say? And in college? At this point, I can't help but laugh. The thought of a grown man (over 30 makes you grown) dating, not fucking mind you, a college student is ludicrous. She may be better than me in every other way but he will still be fucking her on a twin size bed with a mortified roommate five feet away. That knowledge takes at least a little of the misery out of it.
posted by The Husskateer at 3:51 PM
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