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On Monday, happenstance occurred. Happenstance, I say, because I’m not sure I believe in fate or destiny, puzzle pieces fitting together just so. I see a yellow sticky note on my office floor. I leave it there for several hours. I have things to do. In the mid-afternoon, I pick up the note and take a look-see. I’m jolted to see it. His email, the asshole, who ruined the name Steve for me, although I never liked it anyway. The one with no affection for me. His email, who I’d finally forgotten. His email, written down a year and a half ago just in case we ever started communicating again, still waiting to be typed in my compose box.
He’s not much to me, not even painful to think about. He’s nothing. He’s an asshole. He is Steve.
He facebooked me a few months ago and I told him to never contact me again.
I’m not sure why I can’t bring myself to throw the sticky note away.
I was thinking last night. Whenever you’re trying to assimilate an event or a relationship into your history, you have to basically write out the story of it/you so that it reads like a history book. I feel as though I’m at the point that I am really turning the page on him, but I have to figure out his reference. Even to myself, I don’t feel as though I can call him my “ex-boyfriend.” Using the word “boyfriend” would be taking liberties with the truth, even if it’s prefaced by “ex.” (And a part of me feels deprived that, yet again, he has denied me his “boyfriend” status.) So the title is tripping me up a bit. He’s my ex-what? He’s my refused-to-be-my-boyfriend-man? He’s my ex-lover? My ex-nothing-relationship?
Tonsil update: Poeticgrin felt of my neck the other day, felt the protrusion that is my right tonsil, looked at me, horrified, and said, “What IS that?”
Ramblings of a Medicated Lady: Words of Woe by Loria Taylor 
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