Yes, yes, I haven’t posted for a while. I took some time off because I was… busy (WTF).
So I didn’t get married. We met on September 29th (his birthday) last year and, true to form, he was outa here shortly before the 1 year mark. Well, I hate all that wedding crap anyways. I never did want a wedding dress or a reception with people I don’t even know or like. Seems like a lot of work for an event that should be a whole lot more intimate than that.
Well Forest, life is like a box of chocolates…. You know what? Funk dat. I hate the sickeningly-sweet cream centered chocolates (the stuff eventually runs all over the place and ruins everything), so I try to poke holes in the bottoms of each and every chocolate so I can figure out which ones NOT to eat to avoid disappointment. Let’s speak in metaphors here and say that I’ve gone through a Willy Wonka amount of chocolates in my life. One would think that based on the law of averages (which I firmly believe in), sometime, somehow, somewhere, I would be able to stick with one chocolate. For me, it would be the perfect blend somehow of mint, coconut, and perhaps even a little ginger, but with the character and consistency of a toffee-centered chocolate: rigid and sustainable. It would be coffee-color and smooth. Why do I keep getting the ones that run? Too much complication. Too much anxiety. You never know when the stuff is going to run out.
I believe that when you reach a certain age (in my case, 29), you start accepting things for the sake of the long ride and not just the short one. I put up with a WHOLE LOT of things – many I am choosing to leave out in the blog. What I will say is that I bent my own rules so many times with The Man that I thought I had turned into my friend from Kentucky who I used to make fun of. Me: Trish, why don’t you leave the bastard? Trish: “Because I looooooooooooooooooove hiiiiim.” I used to make serious fun of my friends like SheeshaGirl who went on and on and on about some loser-of-a-man to the point where we all wanted to shoot her to put her out of our own misery. I have BECOME these women. I don’t think I’m a meek little push-over doormat of a person. I am generally not-very-interested in most of the men I meet. They’re nice and all that, but I am too distant for a relationship. I just don’t care all that much unless someone really impresses me – and at this point, most don’t.
Why is it that The Man impressed me? I blame it all on The Romanian. See, I saw The Man and I didn’t think he was ALL THAT (way less the bag of chips on my scale). A week after we met, she was adamant that I call him, so I did. Then we went out a few times. I don’t know what it was about him (nuclear physics – some form of chemical reaction perhaps?). He definitely didn’t have the ideal marital situation, financial situation, and more.
I don’t regret it. I had a great time. We did so many things together that I have wanted to do with a boyfriend/fiancé/husband for so long: Stupid things like camping and shopping and going to movies and hanging out. Stupid things that alas, most Kuwaiti men don’t do for different reasons.
I didn’t get to travel with him and I’m very sorry about that. He chose to go to Phuket with a womanizing guy-pal of his instead of going there with me – for our honeymoon. When I heard the woman in his room (it could have been the television, right?) and confronted him, it was the last time I spoke to him. I hope she enjoyed our damn honeymoon. He was supposed to be in Sharm with his sisters (who I will miss).
I’m a simple girl. I don’t need a lot to keep me happy and I don’t mind sharing what I’ve got because it is a PARTNERSHIP. I just don’t want a guy who does really dumb things and then wants to “make it up to me”. You know what, gentlemen? Once that statement is out of your mouth, it is already too late.
Well, I won’t go into too many details, but I send him daily reminders that I don’t forgive him and that if he is praying during this Ramadan, I don’t believe God will accept his prayers as he can’t be a good person during the other 11 months of the year. As he TOLD his entire family and circle of friends 8 months ago that we are already married (and he hasn’t bothered to divorce me yet), perhaps I am still considered his wife. And if that is the case and this IS Ramadan, why the HELL hasn’t he bothered to even buy me a tin of tashreeba or perhaps some frickin gaymat??? Bless his cheap-ass stingy heart.
Speaking of which, if you want laugh-your-ass-off-funny, read this book: Bless Your Heart, Tramp by Celia Rivenbark. Holy shit, it is hilarious. She also wrote, “Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank,” and “We’re Just Like You, Only Prettier” (which could have a tremendous appeal to the entire female population of Kuwait).
In the South, you can say, “Bless your heart” and get away with anything (as Celia says in her book). The Man is an idiot, bless his heart.