(continued from yesterday’s My Not-So-Super Ex-Girlfriend, Part I)
You want to know why I call you my ex-girlfriend? That’s what you are, my last girlfriend. Sure, there are a few women that have piqued my interest and I’ve been with since you. But not one of them reached the relationship stage because I — or she or we — realized it wouldn’t work.
Even more, I call you my ex-girlfriend because I still hold the most minuscule of hopes that what we have will work — although I know it won’t. I realize that getting back with you would be as smart as going all-in with a 7-2 suited in Hearts. All the odds would be against my heart winning. My poker buddies will tell you that I’ll only go all-in when I believe I will win.
And no, I never want to relegate our relationship to the title of “best friends with occasional benefits.” That might be the dumbest phrase I’ve ever penned. The two people who do fall into that trap, but won’t get together, will be in dire need of therapy two years from now. I clearly won’t be in attendance (see: This May Concern You header).
Besides, I haven’t seen you in almost two years. It’d take me a four-hour drive to get to your doorstep. I can’t be in a long distance relationship with you because you would cheat. You refuse to lose an argument you know you can’t win. You’re not as graceful as you know you should be. You couldn’t define humility if I gave you the link to the definition. When you desire, you can be unruly and disrespectful to anyone, and I detest this about you. And most important, when it comes to doing what you know is right by me (on so many different levels), I can’t trust you. Seriously, a proposal to you would be immediately followed by a pre-nuptial agreement (and that’s if I’m broke or rich).
But I still love you because you provide me with daily comedic fodder, and you’re not funny. You get most of my quirkiness. You (eventually) tell me the truth, and I’m not sure you can lie (well) to me. You give me reports about your bowel movements the way a 3-year-old would tell her parents, and I’m amazed and adore that we’re that close. You nudge me toward my lofty aspirations. You brighten my days with just the sound of your voice (seriously, I haven’t seen you in two years). If I needed you, I believe that you would be there. And you help make me happy … except when you do something that disappoints or upsets me.
Yes, my friend J.Dot labeled you the “Black Barbie Bia” with just cause. Remember, it was you who pissed me off to the point that I dropped three f-bombs in different ways in one sentence.
And that’s the thing. There’s for worse and for better. But there’s not enough consistency in anything you do to qualify calling you my best friend. Maybe it’s OK for you to call me your best friend because you know I will never knowingly do wrong by you, even in a vindictive manner (I’m so past that “short-lived February 2004 text-messaging revenge rampage” phase and you know it). But I’m not sure you’d do the same (see: no trust, proposal and pre-nup).
I wouldn’t give up my best friend for anything in this insane world. But you would, have and will again. That makes it impossible for me to give you that title. So yours remains the following: my ex-girlfriend/friend … with no short- or long-term plans for an upgrade.
Like Jason Mraz’s says: you’re a beautiful mess, and at times, loving you is like picking up trash in elegant dress.
I know this won’t vibe well with you. If we stop talking after you read this, so be it … … I’ll talk to you in about a month. You know I’m being honest. And remember, you asked for a letter. Well, here it is, picture perfect and over 1,000 words of brutal truth.
Just know that I’m going to be the same me who aims for the sky hoping that I land on Cloud 9, whether I find you there or another woman who fulfills my ridiculous requirements (see: the P.S.).
Like Mint Condition said, there’s nothing left to say. Actually, that song is quite fitting.
Victor (Damone Jr.)
P.S. I’m still searching for a Bonita Applebum with a side of Ms. Fat Booty who has a dash of surefire superstar sureshy firecracker extravaganza fantastic supersize with extra cheese, yet doesn’t need a golden calculator to divide but knows how to play spades with the cards up, all trust …
P.S.S. Jason Mraz’s A Beautiful Mess or Mint Condition’s Nothing Left to Say …