Ok, no. I don’t do this. But that’s surely only because I haven’t been drunk in years and years. I am a ‘use your words’ girl but also a bit of a coward, so my equivalent of drunk-dialing is writing a letter. I compose all manner of missives — weepy, vituperative, conciliatory, shaming, loving, befuddled … And, sadly, sometimes I send them.
I haven’t sent one to every ex (so if any of you are reading this and wondering where yours might be, sorry!), but some have had the distinction of receiving several. I’m not sure I would call this an honor.
The letters accomplish nothing positive. Ever. Ok, that’s not true. Two of the letters had very acceptable results, but two is hardly a bumper crop.
And why am I going on about this? Yeah. I have been writing a letter in my head for about a week. No, not to AC. AC and I have reached an oddly workable place where I get to go on assured that we are well and truly broken up and he gets to go on thinking we might maybe-possibly still be together or get back together or be friends with benefits or … just something that doesn’t mean we’re well and truly broken up. Whatever. It’s foolish, but it’s easier this way. We no longer have to fight on the phone and instead have some very nice, even affectionate conversations. Whenever I get back to JA, I can sort all of that out. No, this letter is to The Morphine Man. Tuesday night as I baked strawberry bread and cookies into the wee hours, I sat down and wrote it out.
Oh I know: I shouldn’t send this letter. I know that. I know that. I know that.