Originally Posted: 2009-10-06 2:05pm

favorite this post This is not a good day.

This day began next to a man you don’t know in your bed. Maybe you like him, you think. You examine his face while he sleeps. No, you do not like him. He wakes up and starts speaking and you like him even less. This man is friends with your boss, whom you also woke up next to at one point in your life, not so long ago, okay, eight months ago, fuck, what were you thinking, shit, after a similar evening. That is why you are eating grape jelly and butter sandwhiches as quickly as you can make them, naked, in your kitchen at three in the afternoon. You see your reflection in the window in front of you, and you realize there is grape jelly on your left boob. You do not look pretty. You are wolfing sandwiches the way that Russian feral child that Jane made you watch Youtube videos about would probably wolf sandwiches, were she given any. You wonder if she was given sandwiches. You love sandwiches. The sandwiches don’t make this day better. Everything you did last night, you regretted. You knew you were creating regrets as you did things. But you did those things anyway.
The man, even before he gets out of your bed, has already told you that he wouldn’t be able to live without his mother and that he photographs buttons for a living. Oh my god you need a sandwich.
Not a martini. Because that is what got you into this mess.
You go to breakfast, because you realize that if you make the man go to breakfast with you he will not be in your bed anymore. You hate him in your bed, almost as much as you hate him in you.
He’s very nice. He really is. Very self deprecating. Not wittily so, just sort of down on himself and awkward. Oh no. Okay here we go.
No, you’re not lame at all. I’m lame because I am going to smile and nod politely through this breakfast and then I will give you a dry kiss before I get out of your car and then I will never, ever sleep with you again. And you have no idea. I am a dick. I am such a dick.
You eat half your eggs, box up the rest, irrationally scold this man you don’t know who you had sex with for not taking home his breakfast. He doesn’t eat leftovers. You’ve been known to eat out of a dumpster. Not really, but kind of. Who is this guy, jeez. So, you eat the eggs, and then take the rest home, and then start going through your phone and apologetically texting everyone you texted the night before. You don’t remember sending those texts, you’re sorry. You were possessed. Possessed by Stoli. You suddenly realize you didn’t use a condom, you need to be tested for stds, and- awesome- you need to go buy the morning after pill so that you don’t get pregnant with Chase’s (Chase, that’s his name, right?) baby. Fuck. Which you can’t afford. There is jizz on your bath towel. Fuck.
Also, you don’t like your hair. Also, you are not allowed to drink anymore, or go out. Or anything. You hate men. You hate sex. You hate body hair. You hate your sheets. They need to be washed. That much is crystal clear.
You eat your leftovers.
You are reminded of this time that you and your ex boyfriend who broke up with you without warning three weeks ago went to brunch. He got eggs and you got a seared tuna salad. It was the most amazing salad you ever had in your whole life. You were so hung over, and it tasted so beautiful, like the ocean and childhood and love. The perfect greens were perfectly coated in a perfect balsamic vinagrette. Chilled roasted potatoes and tomatoes, perfectly seasoned and salted, were layered with hunks of snowy, fluffy goat cheese. A row of thick, purple slices of tuna encrusted in black pepper topped the whole perfect thing. It was amazing and you wanted to put the whole fucking plate in your mouth at once, but you couldn’t finish it, you got full, and your then boyfriend took home the leftovers, his and yours, and the salad called to you all day while you were at work. And you worked a double. You worked twelve hours of hell, and your leftover salad was the beacon of light at the end of the dark tunnel that was your shitty, shitty, shitty fucking day. And you finally clocked out at work, and rode your bike in the cold rain all the way home to your then boyfriend’s apartment, and you took off your clothes and kissed him and put on pajamas and padded into the cold dark kitchen and opened the fridge to find his pancakes and no salad. Your shitty, shitty, shitty fucking then boyfriend, now ex boyfriend, ate your leftovers and not his own, because, as he said when you asked him about the situation, without taking his eyes off of the TV, “yours looked better.” Which is true, it did, but it was yours and he didn't really care about that, and you wanted it, and he didn't care much about that either, you see that now and you suddenly want that salad so bad, so bad, so bad.
And you’re thinking about this as you sit in your bed with your keys and your jizz covered towel and several People magazines and you think
Oh my God. I need a fucking sandwich,
What a dick. I don’t miss him at all.
Why the fuck doesn’t Chase eat leftovers? Sooooo good. Jeez.

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