Love and Lust in the Bubble: Bathing in the Past

When I got sick that one time, you took care of me. I hadn't even told anyone that I was sick— I never do— but you noticed.

I quickly moved my whole life around to love you. My cycle of pathologically desperate hookups needed to stop so that I could be worthy of loving someone. I succeeded. I purified myself, and then you told me that you just wanted to be friends.

I stayed strong, and I stayed pure, like a Renaissance courtly lover. At a party, while drunkenly talking about you to a very hot guy who was clearly about to settle for leaving with me, I said, “You and I aren't hooking up, by the way, in case that wasn't clear. I’m, like, in love.”

And then we finally kissed, and I called all my friends back home to tell them about you and to send them pictures of you and to transcribe relevant text message conversations and basically just gush.

We hung out the next day, and then you didn’t respond to my text messages for a week, and I cried.

And then we started hanging out, and we would go into town together, and people assumed we were dating, a delusion from which I made no effort to dissuade them. Truth be told, I really enjoyed their confusion.

And then you kissed my cheek secretly in a dark theater, and we hooked up in your car, and that time I only called my best friend from back home, who was wearily confused, wondering if you were the same guy as before.

And then it was summer, and we talked every day, except when you would ignore me for weeks.

And then we got back to campus, and I took your virginity, and then you told me that you didn’t love me, and the next night I had one of the best hookups of my life, and then I yelled at you, and then somehow you told me that you loved me, and I must have told you that I loved you.

And then we were dating.

And then I started cheating on you.

And then I started hating you.

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And now we don’t speak, and looking at you makes my heart sink because you’re everything that I hate about myself. I can never apologize enough, and I can never get the apology that I actually want. Because it’s not you, it’s me, but it’s also a little bit you, too.

But I don't even think you care anymore. You got over it.

And I did, too. I’m with a new guy, and he’s uncomplicated and happy, and he texts me to see how my day is going, and he makes me smile constantly, and I’m so happy. Plus, he has a huge dick.

It’s just hard because I don't know how I’m supposed to stop thinking about you when I listen to Adele.

I usually like bathing in the past. It’s like sifting through the results of my experiments. I don’t want to throw out all my data because it didn’t fit my hypothesis. But it’s killing my graphs.

I also forgot to mention that I lost my best friends because of you, and that also really sucked.