This is the letter I wrote in therapy that my therapist encouraged me to mail to him.
~Thursday, October 29, 2009
~Tuesday, October 27, 2009
~Monday, October 26, 2009
Love, Sarah at 1:51 PM|
~Thursday, October 22, 2009
~Tuesday, October 20, 2009
~Thursday, October 15, 2009
~Wednesday, October 14, 2009
- The government wants you to be married. That's why they set up a tax break just for married people.
- You get your spouse's social security benefit when he/she dies.
- You also inherit 401ks tax free.
- And if marriage was bad, then why is the government trying to keep the gays out?
Love, Sarah at 8:00 AM|
~Tuesday, October 13, 2009
The other night I was able to tear the boyfriend away from football long enough to play some Wii Fit. We have a tendency to drink too many beers and decide to play the balance game, or even worse, to do the dreaded fitness test that makes fun of you and tells you how weak your muscles are.
I think I am currently 32 on the Wii Fit and the boyfriend, who had been drinking all day, was 48.
It was time for the fitness test and I loosened the draw string of my pajama pants and dropped them. If I was going to weigh myself in front of the boyfriend, I needed everything that worked in my favor.
I never put my pants back on. I was kind of hot and kind of sweaty from kicking his ass on the hula hoop game. The boyfriend's hips are as rusty as the Tin Man's. I stepped on the Fit for another round. I panted as my Mii danced with 4 and then 5 hula hoops at once.
I stepped off the Fit, pleased that I had broken a new record.
"You made me hard," he said.
"Watching you play the hula hoop game with just your shirt and panties on made me hard."
In my competitiveness, I never considered he'd be staring at my ass the whole 3 minutes. If I had known, I would have slipped my wide-leg pajama pants back on.
You see, my ass is my biggest part of me. Whomever I date has to be an ass man. It's not freaky huge, but it's noticeable and makes jeans purchases annoying. And you can't have a full ass with skinny-minny legs. Nope, your thighs are going to be as full as your ass.
And I may have flecks of cellulite in both.
So the idea of my handsome boyfriend, ticket holder to the gun show, staring at my cellulite ass clad in 5-year-old panties (that's right, the pair from Wal-Mart with the elastic fraying away at the sides) while I was gyrating away to the hula hoop game horrified me. Horrifies.
All I can think is that he must really, really like me.
~Monday, October 12, 2009
This weekend Christopher packed a bag to spend at my place. I thought it was cute because he lives so close by.
Amongst the toothbrush and t-shirts, he packed:
- His chenille throw that I curl up in whenever I'm at his apartment.
- Doggie snacks for the Femme Fatale, the first dog he's ever really "lived" with.
- 6 discs of DVD porn.
I'll let you guess which ones.
~Friday, October 09, 2009
A rare Friday spent apart, I went to happy hour with gal pals Harvey and Dee and was in bed and asleep before midnight. At 4:30 a.m. I was awoken by a phone call from Christopher who had some big, insomniac revelation.
I laid in bed and lazily spoke to him. I kept my eyes closed and re-adjusted the sheets over my shoulder. Then the glass on one of my bedroom windows shuddered as a large object crashed into it.
I bolted up in bed. "Did you hear that?" I asked into the phone.
"Something just hit my window. It was either a large rock or a bird."
Christopher continued his conversation about the perfect Saturday he had planned for us. My mind wandered to the bird that had to have died on impact against my window. The poor, stupid and now dead bird. That flew into my window. The window with the blinds drawn, so it wouldn't have looked like the sky. The window that is flush against a very exspansive and imposing building. That doesn't sound right.
Just then, my window shook again as something else crashed into it.
"Christopher, there is somebody throwing rocks at my window. And these aren't pebbles. They are huge rocks from the sound of it. I'm surprised the window hasn't shattered yet."
I was no longer lounging lazily in bed, but now curled in the fetal position with the blankets tight in my grip. These weren't friendly rocks being friendedly thrown.
"Who's doing it?" he asked.
"I am not getting out of bed and sticking my face in the window that someone is aiming at!" I cried. "I don't want them to know I am home!"
Another rock hit my window. I yelped. Other rocks missed and I heard them bounce on the sidewalk 50 feet below me. I tried to figure out why of all the windows along this huge building against the street, mine was being targeted. Then I remembered it was a cool night, so I left my balcony doors open because my doggie loves to sit outside. Actually, I had been doing it all week. And usually when I get up in the morning, I find the Femme Fatale snoozing outside. I felt safe with the decision to leave the doors open because my apartment is so high up. Then the iron balcony railing stung on impact.
I gasped with the realization that my dog may be outside on the balcony. I hopped out of bed and kept the lights off and Christopher connected to my ear. As I approached the balcony door, I crouched low so no one could see me and pulled it shut and locked it. The Femme Fatale was not outside like I feared. I turned around to head back into the bedroom and stumbled across a large rock that was lying on my living room floor. Someone had aimed for my balcony and it landed inside my apartment.
I started crying. Someone was attacking me and I was scared. Christopher told me not to be so dramatic. I said there were rocks in my apartment that were large enough to kill the Femme Fatale upon impact. Large enough to kill me if struck on the head. I told him I was going to hang up and call the police. Christopher told me not to, that it was probably just drunk teenagers.
I continued to cry. I was alone in the dark in this big space. Christopher, still skeptical, got in the car and headed to my place. I was grateful he woke me up before this happened and that he was on the line with me throughout the ordeal. I don't know how I would have reacted if the rocks woke me up.
After I had closed the balcony door. The rocks had stopped. Christopher knocked at the door a few minutes later and again I was grateful because he lived so close by. I was afraid to look out the peephole and afraid to open the door.
"Alright, where is this rock in your apartment?" he asked.
I led him into the living room and Christopher turned the lights on. "There," I pointed.
"Holy shit, that rock is big enough to kill you!" he gasped.
He unlocked the balcony door and stepped outside. There, on the balcony between the Femme Fatale's fleece blanket and my basil plant, was a shoe. A motherfucking shoe.
"Why is there a shoe on your balcony?" Christopher was still having trouble believing me.
"I don't know!" I sneered. "Why in the world would I have a single, dirty, man's shoe?!"
It was then Christopher believed me. I kicked the shoe over so I could see it. I checked to see if it was the old boyfriend's. I didn't think it was.
"Do you think your ex could have done this?" Christopher asked as he checked the rest of my apartment. Christopher had read my mind without me saying anything. If it was just drunk teenagers, why weren't other apartments targeted? Why just my bedroom window and my living room balcony on my floor? There are easier windows to hit on the floors below me or further up the sidewalk.
"I don't think so. I made sure he doesn't know where I live, nor does he know anyone that knows where I live. Besides, he would have to know the building layout to know which apartment is mine from the street."
A few nights later, Christopher asked again if I thought it was my ex. I told him no. But am I positive in my response? Absolutely not.