Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Don't Talk to Your Exes

I'd like to write a little blurb about relationships, since I have obsessively been beating this dead horse regarding my upcoming move for so long. Hopefully, I'm finished talking about that. I know that I'm not, though. I won't really be over it until it happens.

The moose (whom I will now refer to as Bullwinkle) and I had a bonding moment in our roach-infested kitchenette this morning. Side note: I am renaming the moose because she is a winking moose. I think she's got that winking Tourette's tic thing going on. She's always winking with one or both of her eyes. The moose + Tourettes' winking = BullWINKle.

This morning, Bullwinkle looked sort of downcast, and asked me my opinion on current boyfriends talking to ex girlfriends. I feel like of all people, I should either be the ultimate authority or no judge at all regarding relationships. I've dated about five billion people since high school, and most of my relationships have been totally dysfunctional. Despite all of the long term ramifications of these experiences, through these relationships, I've learned an immense amount about myself, others, and relationships.

I started thinking back on a time where I was in a pretty intense relationship with a douche bag idiot who was 10 years older than me who kept calling me "Marissa." I learned after a while that this was his ex girlfriend's name. I was only about 21 at the time, so I had not yet learned that the first time he called me this cheap hooker name I should have ended it. I also happened to find ole Marissa's diamond hoop earrings on his night stand a few months into it. All the clear signs that he was still hooking up with her were right in front of me, but during that period of my life, I actually still trusted people, so when he said things like, "Oh, I was cleaning out my closet and found her earnings from five years ago and put them there to remind me to mail them to her," I sort of believed him. Eventually, I dumped him when I was cracked out on wisdom teeth meds, which was a great way to do it, because I had completely flat affect, and that really twisted the old knife. Anyway, the point of all of this is that I think the only reason to keep up with an ex is if you have intentions of still engaging in some sort of unhealthy relationship with them. If you really want to have an invested and committed relationship with your current significant other, talking to your ex all the time is like driving a car but letting all the air out of the tires. Sure, the car can still drive, but after a while, all the air is out, and then you hit the ground. I think it's sort of impossible to have a healthy relationship if you're talking to your ex all the time.

I told Bullwinkle that I probably wouldn't be OK with it. She said every time she's with her boyfriend, he gets a call from his ex. That made me feel sort of bad for her. Even though she annoys the crap out of me and I want to punch her more days than not, I know the feeling of being in a failing relationship, or at least one where you feel insecure and trust is disintegrating, and it really sucks.

It's weird for me to be in a relationship where I am not constantly worrying about the other person all the time. Though I was in a series of dysfunctional relationships prior to moving to L.A., I've never had terrible encounters like I've had out here.

I was flipping through this Elvis biography book the other night, and I was looking at pictures of him when he was young and living in Memphis. He looked so wholesome and full of life and heroic. Then as time progresses, there are all of these pictures of him in L.A. and Vegas and he looks bloated and tired and that look of life and vibrance is gone, like he's running on empty. I can't help but wonder if maybe I would have had that look after I'd lived here long enough. I already feel like my personality and outlook on life is completely different now. Maybe I would've turned into "Fat Elvis" after a few more years of this intensity. I bet that taping aluminum foil to my windows would have been inevitable.

My boyfriend sent me a beutiful bouquet of pedaly flowers yesterday for no reason. I've never had that happen. I've never received flowers for no reason. I've typically received flowers to memorialize a fight. It was wonderful. I felt valued.

I've noticed that when he and I Skype, I'm constantly jumping out of my chair to go get water or dental floss and I'm always rubbing my hands all over my face and through my hair. He sits there still as a painting the whole time, completely invested. It's funny how this is a metaphor for our personalities. He's so stable and calm and anchored and I'm always running around like a headless chicken. I remember one time someone told me, "I feel like a dragonfly that's just landed on a boat." I know what that means now. I know what it means to feel anchored and calm around someone who is that way. Normally I feel completely insane.

I have to do a big subject shift because I am uncomfortable talking too much about my personal life on my Blog. I keep that stuff for my old school, hand written journal.

I just walked to the back of our office, where Bullwinkle has essentially taken over my personal space like Napoleon conquering Europe, and she started complaining about how cold she is. Why is it that fat people are always freezing to death?

Scientifically, it makes no sense. All of that insulation is supposed to keep you warm. I mean, bears get all fat and then sleep in freezing caves ALL WINTER and they don't wake up. Their BLUBBER keeps them WARM.

I don't get it.

I should probably diverge into a long-requested topic because it segues nicely.

My sister has this roommate that reminds me of this nutjob girl that I roomed with for a short time at LSU who we (me and my posse) refered to as, "The Mighty Goliath." She was a humungous landmonster who practiced poor hygiene, washing her hair only once per week, and her legs were covered in vericose veins. We had these intense air condition wars. She alway cranked up the heat to about 90 degrees in the 100% Louisiana humidity and I'd sneak down the hall and put it on 72. Up and down the tempertaure went for hours upon hours. I hated that girl. She smelled like crap. And oily hair.

Anyway, my sister has this INSANE roommate who wrote her this 40 page Communist Manifesto letter in a very small, typewritten font. Page after page after page of word vomit was explosive with anger, documenting her insanity for anyone to see. Little does Roomie know that my sister copied this letter and sent it out, like the Magna Carta, to all Haley family members via postal mail. I have never read anything like this in my life. This crazy person documented EVERY SINGLE THING that my sister did to irritate her, all the way down to saying that my sister owes her 33 cents here for the gas bill or 67 cents here for toilet paper. It was absurd. Roomie clearly has significant mental health problems. Roomie went on to write a lot of bizarre, intended guilt trip-ridden phrases like, "if you were a REAL friend, you would do (whatever whatever)". It's like "Mean Girls" manifested itself into roommate-from-hell form. I'd put in direct quotes, but I don't have the letter in front of me.

This leads me back to the whole ex thing, sort of. I don't talk to my exes, but I do have guy friends. It's so much easier to have guy friends, usually. Girls are crazy. I love being a woman and fully embrace my feminity, HOWEVER, it takes a hell of a lot of work to be friends with a girl, especially in L.A. Out here it's always a contest of who is prettier or who is more popular or who goes on the most dates. It's completely absurd. Clearly, (see paragraph above), crazy women exist everywhere, but they are especially insane in Los Angeles.

I'm looking forward to moving back and recruiting some nice, non-crazy friends. I have a couple of old ones with whom I have kept in touch, but for the most part, I'm going to have to start from square one.

I guess I better get back to my menial monkey tasks for the day. Only three more days to VICTORY.

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