I’m on an obligatory and highly ritualized post break-up diet and exercise regimen. Cliché, I know, but I prefer to externalize my pain, and it’s a helluva lot healthier than going on a four day coke binge in the Marilyn Suite.
Sure, this is a little bit of my crazy showing, but fuck it. Right now I need my muscles to ache more than my heart.
Everyone who knows me thinks I’m good with break-ups. All they see is surface calm, and they assume the best. In a way, they’re right. I’m strong. I’m dealing with it. Still, this shit hurts.
I’ve really missed him these past few weeks. We talk on the phone most days and still have plans to see each other, but I’ve come to feel his absence.
It’s okay, though. That’s what’s supposed to happen now. Besides, it’s in that absence that I’m able to appreciate how much of himself he gave me when we were together.
Not that I didn’t deserve it, but damn, he really did know how to show a girl some undivided attention. For a while there, we were the only two people on earth.
I’ve been out of LA for a week now. I can feel my edge growing dull.
I’m in a middle city that shall remain nameless. Not that it matters. The landscaped boulevards lined with strip malls are the same wherever you go.
Everyone here watches football. Aggressively. They spend hours sitting around fantasizing about it, in public no less. Football. As if such things mattered.
The men are all made of dough — their chins, their bellies, worst of all, their minds. The women are all sugar coated and delicate. Folks here are soft and prideful. They’re infected with a blue collar ethos normally reserved for those who’ve led a life of grit and manual labor. Thing is, they work in air conditioned offices like the rest of us, so it all just comes off as thick-skulled and insufferable.
I know I’m supposed to be respectful of other cultures, but I have my limits. It’s become difficult to mask my contempt. Sure, my lifestyle may be equally shallow, but at least I come from a place with a little reverence for aesthetics.
Two more days and I’m home. I can’t wait to be stuck on the 405.