Perhaps I am a tad bit maschochistic

I decided today, unceremoniously, to telephone the X. The one who, in all of her callousness, left me stranded, one limb down (right foot), in the Himalayas in India. Since the insipid phone call via skype, a mere three hours after my harrowing adventures in two different rural Indian ERs, she and I have been but ghosts to one another*.

It was the type of breakup that twisted everything within you into knots. There was no telling which was you were facing. A dizzying, tale spin of where did those last three years just go? I'll tell you where...Right down the crapper, kids.

And despite my best intentions and my deepest desires, I called. After promising, just a few weeks before, that I was done talking, thankyouverymuchmylifeisbetternow, I'm moving on.

But oh, how deep those ties can be. Ties you wish you could sever with a simple snip of the scissors. Only when trying to do so, it turns out that you need a crew of five, and a few chain saws to actually make a dent in said ties.

So I called. And we talked. Things were...civil...At first.

But then I realized, some where between her "You and I were never compatible" and "I never wanted to stay with you that long anyways," or maybe between her "I love you, but I don't appreciate you when you are so close"** and "You have so much to offer, I'm just not the one to take it" you realize HOT DAMN who does this person think I am.

So there you have it folks, after three years this woman knows me about a well as the bum she passes on Houston street each and every day. And to date, she has yet to alter her view of me. Has yet to acknowledge growth.

But then again...Seeing growth would be admitting fault that maybe, just maybe, she jumped the gun on the all-in-one-breath "I can't be with you anymore, sorry about your broken foot" skype call.


*save for my sojourn to the big bad city a few months prior to today. As I said, call me a masochist.

**cut the drivel, I'm not a god damned Monet painting.