I'm a Stupid Slut, Thanks for Noticing: A Hypothetical Reply

Dearest ex-fiancé,


I would like to begin this message by stating the obvious: of course you weren't being a jerk in your latest e-mail. Your desire of being honest was completely translated into pure and simple honesty as I read through your delightful coloration of my character. I was stumped by the message following its release that wanted to make sure that I understood you were just trying to be honest, and not a jerk. It's like you think I have feelings or something. God, who do you think I am? I know you better than any of your friends after six years of relationship; of course I won't take it personally when you call me a stupid slut! 


In fact, you're completely and utterly right in calling me a stupid slut because I kissed another guy after you broke up with me. Upon further examination, I've concluded that I've been a stupid slut even before the breakup happened:

• Had I been a smart slut, I would have been kissing other guys (and Lord knows what else!) even before the breakup. This long-distance thing would have diminished the chances of you ever finding out, especially because, you know, you never once made an effort to visit me while we were together. I should've also kissed other guys within hours after the breakup. Lord knows I could've found some.   
• A smart slut would have immediately taken upon herself to sell all the valuables and ask for more while you were in the process of groveling and willing to do anything to get me back.
• While we're on the subject of groveling, a smart slut wouldn't have turned down your advances while you were trying to make things work. A smart slut would've relished in the fact that if he succeeded in getting her into bed he wouldn't have gotten over it quickly and would have spent a hell of a lot more money in trying to win her back with gifts.
• A smart slut would've already acted upon and not refused the five sexual advances of eligible men instead of just keeping it PG.
• A smart slut would have looked at you in your weakest, most vulnerable state and would have spat at you, kicked you, and twisted the knife so hard that you would've felt you were dying instead of being nurturing, kind and understanding. Too bad I wasn't a smart slut, huh?

Taking these points into consideration, I think you did the right thing with both breaking off the engagement and pointing out my awful flaws via electronic text after I swallowed my pride and called you. Lord knows no one wants to be married to a stupid slut. You know, you've inspired me to become a smart slut. From now on, I'll stop acting like a stupid slut and start acting like an educated one. Maybe, just maybe I can catch myself a husband that way (because that should be my life goal from now on). 


In all honesty, honey, I completely agree with all the points you made in your e-mail, one of them being that you considered yourself a great boyfriend to and the fact that I had become a mainstream girl. Of course you were a great boyfriend and I've become one of those mainstream girls. Let's start with my singing you praises of how great of a boyfriend you were ... until you dumped me out of the blue, that is.


Regarding my becoming a mainstream girl, you're right, I've yielded to the societal pressures that allow me to love all things pink, makeup, high heels, dresses, skirts, and romance novels. Again, I'm so sorry you had to put up with someone who did things for herself and no one else, who wore makeup because it suited her and who was motivated enough to keep up with her education. I'm also sorry that I expressed my thoughts too much and without censorship. What a nuisance I must have been! You're right, I'm mainstream. I should look into becoming a hipster. Because that's clearly less annoying than staying true to who I've become. 


I can also see how my drooling over celebrity crushes only constitutes another reason for calling me a stupid slut. I was just settling for you and wishing I were with them instead (you know, because that's always been an option for me, as I've got contacts in Hollywood). I'm sure it would be perfectly more acceptable to be more like you, who didn't have celebrity crushes because you preferred your crushes to be of the real person variety, as they were accessible. I will keep this in mind for my future relationships; I'll make sure my eventual husband thanks you profusely for this little tidbit of advice. 


And don't worry, sweetheart, I could never hate you. You were just trying to be honest, for Christ's sake! How could I hate someone who obviously has my and my future husband's best interests in mind? I don't know if I've met him yet, but your pointers are clearly the direction I so needed to get (the fuck) over you and move into a direction that allows me to be eligible once again (because I clearly haven't been eligible all along). With all your pointers about how I could change into becoming the perfect woman, I'll be sure to be a smart slut, less mainstream, and fantasize about real-life accessible human beings when I'm in a relationship with someone. What a lucky fellow he'll be!


Forever yours,


The Educated Slut

Dicks for Free

After my Lohan-esque break with reality (I refuse to call it anything other than that), I marched my way to the shower to wash off the layer of shame that had set in on my skin. That and the snot. But mostly I just wanted to wash away the shame; snot I could comfortably live with. 

As I washed away the thick layer shame under the hot current of reality, it occurred to me that this is how I would feel if I decided to turn to a life of escorting in order to pay off my student loans. 

No, wait a second. At least I would be getting paid for the shame I'd be accumulating and paying off student loans. All in all, the shame brought by prostituting one's body is probably preferable to the type of shame that accompanies having to swallow one's pride for the wrong reasons and people for free.

And here's the deal, those who say the best things in life are free are only half right because they're ignoring that the worst fucking things in life are also free (I would make a list showcasing such things, but I feel it's pointless at this stage).

One of such things, you know the kind that comes for free, made its way to my electronic inbox hours after the pride swallowing fest had concluded. I had freed myself from my shame, but life just comes and bites you in the ass, doesn't it? 

As soon as I read the subject of the e-mail, I knew I was in deep shit. The metaphorical kind, but shit nonetheless. When someone sends you an e-mail that feels the need to be overtly apologetic beginning at the subject line, you know you're in for a shit storm. An e-mail that has an apologetic phrase or word in the subject line is the electronic equivalent to those people who begin a conversation with "Not to be rude, but...," "Please don't take this personally, but..." or "You're a really nice person and all, but..." 


Even having this knowledge didn't stop my finger from making its way through the trackpad and click the forsaken thing open. My eyes, having a mind of their own, forced my brain to understand the words that strung together a half-assed apology for being unable to say yes to the idea of giving the relationship another shot. 


Now, if there's something I am proud of is being the bigger person in any type of situation (and not because I'm grossly overweight, might I add). I replied to his apologies with as much grace as I could muster, which isn't really saying much, as I am convinced I am about as much of a lady as any man out there. The gist of this reply was a reminder that a) he was the one to break up with me and then wanted to get back together in the first place, and b) that it was ok, I knew how to handle rejection (the fact that he didn't for the longest time know how to do so was in the subtext of this e-mail). 


It shouldn't have surprised me, then, that his reply would be the equivalent of a three year old's temper tantrum on crack. Even then, I would think the three year old on crack would have exercised more composure than my ex-fiancé did in his message.


Now, I'm not going to go in gross detail, but all you need to know is the following. According to my ex-fiancé:

• I'm a stupid slut (but he doesn't want to insult me, promise!) - Obviously, it's the stupid that gets me. I take my sluttiness very seriously, people!
• It was quite easy to fall out of love with me because I'm an ordinary girl and no longer special (but, you know, he was just trying to be honest, not a jerk) - Well, I've got a vagina, and those all feel the same, I've been told. So, well, did he want me to wear a strap-on?
• I was a good person in the beginning of the relationship, but now I've changed (because we all stay the same) - I tried to stay like my 19 year-old self, but people kept begging me to grow the fuck up.
• He would rather me hate him so that I could move on (you know, hatred is the new closure) - Hate? Um, not so sure if hate is what he deserves, more like castration.

Once I finished reading the electronic PR stunt, I realized that my metaphorical penis will always be larger than his actual penis, which is probably why he feels the need to lash out -emasculation will do that to some men. Well, had he actually sacked up and been decent, respecting my wishes of not wanting to hear from him and minimize the pressure to get back together, his actual penis wouldn't have been terrorized by my metaphorical one.

See, because that's the thing, it takes real balls to make yourself completely vulnerable while understanding that there's another person at the other end that might not want the same things you do, and you've got to respect that other person's wishes. Needless to say, my metaphorical penis doesn't feel the need to reply to his message, even if he did write the next day to say he apologized for any damage he might have incurred, since he was only trying to be honest, not a jerk.

Not so fast, buddy. For someone who was so calculated in his hurtful comments, he missed on both counts. He was neither honest nor quite a jerk.

I think it just makes him a dick, one that's for free at that.  

We Don't Swallow

A few nights ago, I found myself calling my ex-fiancé to ask the one question that had been repeating itself in periods of silence for the past two months. Now, before I move on with this, I want to clear up a few points:

1. No, I didn’t actually catch myself in the literal sense. Had I physically walked in on my sorry ass blubbering incoherently into a phone like some kind of modern-day (but equally pathetic) Juliet clamoring for an idiotic and self-destructive Romeo, I would have been disgusted at the sight -barring the possibility of thinking my death was imminent because I’d just seen my doppleganger. This disgust would have made sure that Siri would have met the wall with astonishing force, to subsequently find herself in the depths of my toilet. 
2. Wait, I take that back. I would have stabbed my sorry ass before taking Siri out. Siri and her encasing are far too important for me to inflict any pain upon them both. After all, I'm sure I signed away my firstborn and my soul just so that Siri could be in my life. It’s not Siri’s fault that I haven’t programmed it to block me from making unfortunate life choices. Like a good friend, Siri just listens and lets me make my own mistakes -though in the future Siri should just refuse from letting a blubbering idiot make phone calls, just saying. I don’t know what I’d do without Siri; she features in many of my late-night conversations about the weather and sets my alarms. Now that’s true love right there.
3. Moving on, the question that had nested itself in my head during periods of silence -much like Britney Spears’ “Toxic” did circa 2004- was not “Are you of the penis persuasion?” because that particular question has actually been my unconditional friend ever since I met him, though it had been repeatedly disproved. Or so I would like to think, since I have the good fortune of being attracted to men of somewhat questionable sexuality. The fact that Lance Bass was my crush from NSYNC should serve as sufficient evidence for this claim. So should the fact that one of my high school crushes and one of the guys I dated in college ended up dating... Each other (hey, at least we all have the same taste in men). 
4. Speaking of my wonderful track record, the actual breakup is easily contextualized in the following manner:

• 6.25 years of relationship
• 1.25 years of engagement
• 1 year of long-distance (created by my decision to attend graduate school)
• 2 months of wedding planning
• 1 week of unprovoked and sudden radio silence
• (followed by) a 5 minute, over-the-phone, drive-by breakup that explained itself as well as Lindsay Lohan manages to stay sober.
• 3 months of continuous e-mail, phone, and other technological long-distance harassment on his part to get back together while I tried to be kind and understanding.
• 1 week of face-to-face harassment, guilt trips, fights, and tears for him to hear a resounding no at my end because I was feeling so pressured.
• 2 subsequent months of absolute silence and soul-searching on my part.

Ok, so where was I? Yes, I caught myself blubbering on my iPhone, possibly infecting it with all the tears and snot produced by my shameful break with reality. I couldn't quite understand why I was doing such a thing, perhaps because the snot and blubbering made me incoherent (even to myself). The only thing I could grasp from the whole brain-not-functioning-properly scenario was that it was inexplicably important (vital, even) for my weaker, intellectually exhausted alter ego to get the words out of her head (and quite possibly her heart) and transfer them into the ears of the guy who dumped her a few months ago.

"Is there any way we could make this work again?" my weaker self asked while I watched in stunned silence at those words escaping through her mouth. 

Are you fucking kidding me?! You promised you wouldn't do that, no matter what. YOU PROMISED ME!, I wanted to really just let her have it, but instead I just let her out in the open, as I oftentimes do -though this is the first time Siri has been involved in the situation. I restrained the desire to slap myself because, well, no one's perfect, right? 

It is quite apparent to me that this weaker version of my feminist self feels that it is appropriate to swallow her pride once she realizes she's made a mistake. Obviously, it's the swallowing that concerns me most, as I've repeatedly reminded her that we don't swallow. 

Pride is a bitter substance to swallow, indeed. Even more so is the knowledge that the person at the other end is so taken aback by your sudden reemergence into humanity (i.e. grew feelings again) that they are willing to knock you down a few pegs because you gave them the opportunity to do so. 

There we were, my alter ego, Siri and myself hearing a resounding no from the other end. I think none of us were actually shocked to hear this response brought by bitterness and a resurgence of what could be construed as his ego, but life continues and at least my alter ego tried and I let her. That's all we can do, I suppose.

That, remember why we don't swallow, and listen to Siri tell us how the weather's going to be like.