Don’t Tell Me About What My Ex Is Doing

If you see my ex out somewhere, I don’t want to know about it. Because I’m the one that’s supposed to be out somewhere. He’s not allowed. He’s supposed to be alone in his apartment, alternating between emotional breakdowns and reorganizing the mounting stacks of Chili’s to-go boxes. If you tell me that you witnessed him in public, it only confirms that he’s still alive. And I just don’t need to know all that. I take comfort in the idea that he might be face down in a puddle of ranch dressing. Let me have that.

If you notice that my ex updated his status, or tweeted, or Instagrammed, keep it to yourself. He stopped being a sweet person with rational thoughts and ambition the moment that we broke up. Now, to me, he’s an asshole, and he doesn’t have anything to say, and he doesn’t do anything fun. So that picture that you saw of him skydiving in Interlaken was fucking doctored. And his hysterical tweet about Delcambre and its “shrimp wind” wasn’t even that funny. His whole image is smoke and mirrors, and like I said, he’s an asshole. He’s just doing it to get a rise out of me. So don’t help him.

If my ex decides to brave the world beyond the Rouse’s chip aisle and attend the same party as me, don’t warn me when you see him. If I know that a hurricane’s in the gulf, I can’t focus on work. And if I know that a former 1st tier slam piece is in the same room as me, I can’t concentrate on all the vodka I’m supposed to be shotgunning. Before leaving prematurely, I’ll spend the night staging laugh scenarios and stepping into flattering lighting. Let me see him on my own and I’ll handle it organically and gracefully.

Never mind. Tell me when that fucker walks in. I need a heads-up so that I can ensure the visibility of m’junk in these cut-offs.

But if you hear that my ex is dating someone else, keep me in the dark. After we stopped dating, his tiny sex organs fell onto the ground and were quickly snatched up by a Pomeranian. Plus, I choose to believe that I’m the last person he’ll ever do wiener stuff with before passing away of old age. But if some unfortunate, simple fruit falls for the charming way that he peppers normal conversation with mispronounced French expressions, or the look on his face when he's genuinely surprised, or the way he sleeps with an entire pillow over his eyes, I don’t think I need to know about it. It’s none of my business.

So let's all pretend that he's gone. He moved to Europe where he can finally practice his Italian and his bathhouse etiquette at the same time. He's in his apartment; forever pinned under a fallen tower of Chili's boxes, under which he survives on flecks of batter and sauce. He's just not here anymore, so we can all go about our business and we don't have to talk about what he's up to. I'm asking you nicely.