This post was going to be all about how - although I was having a tough case of The Reds (and if you don't know what that means you should watch Breakfast at Tiffany's), there was a bright spot in the lovely woman at Rebecca's Cafe who knew that I wanted a Veggie Soup To Go and cashed me out before I even waited in line. It was meant to be a meditation on my predictability, my need for days and moments to be planned.
Instead, it is this.
Mr. Zips and I broke up. For the last time.
Because even if either one of us tries to reconcile, I just don't think it's going to take.
The reality is this: I understand that being together doesn't mean mean being fused at the hip. And what he's finally realizing is that being together means two individuals - who aren't fused at the hip - living independently and living supportive lives.
Up until now he's felt we need to be fused at the hip. Since the Minneapolis wedding, he's felt that he needs to be his own person, take care of himself. What he doesn't seem to understand is that these aren't necessarily mutually exclusive.
Of course, if he were a decent human being, he would have mentioned this to me without having me to force the issue. Heck, he would have mentioned it before Minneapolis. But at the very leat he would have mentioned it before I, psychic though I am, picked up on it and had to hand him his razor and shampoo and tell him to leave.
The shithead in me wants to call Army Boy and BBB and arrange for some comfort duty. I won't. Yet.
I feel like shit. I hope that my job won't suspect too much when I inevitably call in sick from work tomorrow. Because I've been crying for hours and am days away from sleep.
I'm trying my yogini best to see the lesson that The Universe is offering me. But right now I just need more bourbon.