Dear you,

No, actually, the thought that I am smarter, better looking, and (believe it or not) saner and more stable than either/both the (main) person I was being “cheated on” with [1] and/or the person I was unceremoniously dumped for does NOT make me feel better or console me!  Why the hell would it?!  What  kind of logic is that?  It frustrates me and it evokes foot-stomping explosions of the “what the fuck, are you kidding me?!  You tossed me over for THAT?” type.  On bad days I then begin inspecting the back of my head for lesions because I will be DAMNED if I can figure out why the fuck it is that I give off some kind of pheromone that means I get multiple random confessions of ancient unrequited love from a bunch of motherfuckers twenty years later “who have never forgotten me” or write poems about me or stalk me online or get in trouble with their wives for emailing me or change their last names to mine etc YET I am, from all evidence, *completely fucking undateable.*  At best, I am the person people cheat on their partners with.  And you know what?  That fucking SUCKS for me.

Addendum: Why yes, I’m sure I should be over it by now, and I’m sure this is slightly tiring,  But you know what?  TWENTY YEARS.  And FOUR YEARS SOLID of letting him wear me down and drop my guard and believe anything that came out of his lying fucking mouth.  And FOUR YEARS of choosing him over someone else, over painting my toenails, over doing shots of bourbon by myself, over catching up with old friends who don’t think so little of me that they would just lie to my face, over watching late night TV with my mother or daughter. THAT is really what kills me – not even the ridiculous drama of how all this went down which probably shouldn’t be so surprising given that he’s a coward to whom life happens.  It’s that I trusted him.  It really makes me feel like an idiot.  It’s that he tried SO HARD to make up for “lost time” and “past mistakes” and *I believed him.*  Like some pathetic daytime drama idiot.

So no, it doesn’t make me feel better, old friend, though thanks for trying.  It makes me feel strange, and damaged, and tired.

[1] If I’d known about it, and there’d been a grownup conversation about it, it wouldn’t have been a problem.  Even so the word ‘cheating’ isn’t quite right, because the expectation of exclusivity was not there (just the expectation of adulthood), but I don’t know how else to put it succinctly.