Nothing but A Greed Inbound for Assholes

I am a man of simple principles. More of a love and hug than a rub and tug type of guy, but when I met her in the early spring of 2008 I was intent on not getting serious. I told myself that she could keep me warm as I slept in the back of Benny's old Ford Explorer. The most expensive thing I owned was the sleeping bag I passed out in, it cost me more than the conveyance that doubled as my homestead, and canoodling closely in my cocoon of sleep with a little extra lithe filling could help me keep the windows fogged. With our exhalations sticking close to the glass and providing privacy for our predilections we could plan when to plant our feet on the frosty ground and face the day. As you can see, the best baked breads of broken men often end up Rye, and I got Carawayed sewing my seeds for the future on land left fallow for a reason.

Oh!

How deeply do I fall for complacency and revel in a rudderless existence, passionately kissing the macadam with the force of an 8th grade make out. Clicking teeth, gnashing molars pushing my body to besotted extremes. Eleven years later we were still together. We took breaks for the first few winters, and you can read here about how I took the cure down south, only to hook back up with her in the Spring. Eventually we were together full time year round, and I began to hate her with a vehemence that seethed over like milk from a forgotten double boiler. Spraying forth an angry froth solely because I settled, I could be angry at no one but myself and instead of dealing I devolved. Crippled with addiction I battled daily to plant the same brand of boots from 11 years earlier, and eventually she made the decision for me.

No one likes to be dumped. You don't dump me, I dump you. I was supposed to the end this on my terms. Where did she get the gall to do what I should of done at the end of that first Summer. How on earth did she get the balls to do what I said I wanted and knew I needed but never would have done. I find no recompense in rifling through the piles of clothes that do nothing but remorsefully remind me of how much I really loved her the first few years, before the rank reek of stagnancy clung to our relationship like a seasick hand on a stanchion.

During the nascency of our demise, I was afforded the luxury of going away to attain a sobriety that had been missing for over 20 years. About 50 days into having a clear head I came back for a date to see if we could work things out. I asked the world to let things go as they should, and after hanging around longer than the breakup actually took I limped outside to catch my breath. I'm so angry at her for dumping me, but so relieved to be single again. The tickling trepidation of being on the market again so close to 40 has invigorated my soul. It's time to decide if I should rebound with another rub and tug, or hold out for love and a hug.