Remember that song “Still the One” by Orleans?  The lyrics went like this:

We’ve been together since way back when
Sometimes I never wanna see you again
But I want you to know, after all these years
You’re still the one I want whisperin’ in my ear

You’re still the one I wanna talk to in bed
Still the one that turns my head
We’re still having fun and you’re still the one

I looked at your face every day
But I never saw it ’til I went away
When winter came, I just wanted to go (wanted to go)
Deep in the desert, I longed for the snow

You’re still the one that makes me laugh
Still the one that’s my better half
We’re still having fun and you’re still the one

You’re still the one that makes me strong
Still the one I wanna take along
We’re still having fun and you’re still the one (yes, you are)

Ooh
Ooh

Changing, our love is going gold
Even though we grow old, it grows new

You’re still the one that I love to touch
Still the one and I can’t get enough
We’re still having fun and you’re still the one

You’re still the one who can scratch my itch
You’re still the one that I wouldn’t switch
We’re still having fun and you’re still the one

You are still the one that makes me shout
Still the one that I dream about
We’re still having fun and you’re still the one

You are still the one
You’re still the one
We’re still having fun and you’re still the one

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Be honest, you didn’t actually read all of that did you? I know.

But listen. Here’s the assignment:
Everywhere you see “still the one” just replace it with “not the one.” By doing this, I’ve just given you a little insight into the state of affairs around here concerning my forlorn love life. You’re welcome for that little tidbit, friends. I’m nothing if not gracious.  Now you don’t have to read all these goddamn words I like to throw down the gauntlet from time to time, like a sick game of Russian roulette with my mind…

Oh where oh where will the blinking cursor take us today, Becky.

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You know that saying, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure?”

I always equated it with trinkets and whatnot, maybe a used car or an old couch. I never really thought about it in the context of people. Like people are the trash and the treasure.
But it makes sense.
Especially seeing as how it felt like I was thrown out of his life like a heaping bag of smelly compost.  I was rotten banana peels and potato skins growing warty eyes by the time the new girl showed up.

Only I didn’t know it yet.

Except I did kinda know.  We always kinda know don’t we?

Then, she posted a pic of the two of them on Facebook and that’s when I became clinically insane for a good week or two. Probably longer. I’m not really sure, you’d have to ask Mimi. She bore witness to it all.

That picture still lives rent free in my head. I haven’t gone back to see if there are anymore pics floating around of the two of them because, honestly, my heart can’t take anymore damage right now. Plus, I’m not a complete masochist. I do need to feel the pain in order to heal but even I have my limits.

Remember when he said he didn’t see a future with me anymore?  Why, then, am I sending him pics of my legs and toes like some goddamn pathetic thirsty whore???? WTF is wrong with me, Becky? 

But anyway, I didn’t come here to get all deranged about the two of them or the US that is no more,
Quoth the Raven “Nevermore!”

I came here to wax philosophical about trash and treasure and how absolutely true it is that one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.

Listen I’m not looking to be anyone’s treasure any time soon, don’t ya know. 
Except maybe my own.

Remember how the two of us watched all those episodes of Fargo?  When I said ” don’t ya know” up there, I thought about the lady police officer who was kinda fat and not all that pretty and really kinda boring but how Tom Hanks son fell in love with her anyway and I wonder why no one can fall for my kinda fat, not very pretty and kinda boring ass.  I mean, what’s a bitch gotta do to get some man meat between these thighs???? Nevermind, actually.  We all know I’m not looking for manmeat without some heartmeat and brainmeat and soulmeat.  And no, not the way Jeffrey Dahmer wanted it either.  Geeezus,Becky .

Honestly, the thought of loving someone who isn’t him is not something I can even begin to imagine right now. I don’t know how it was so easy for him to move on. Or why. Sometimes I think he must have hated me in the end. Maybe I repulsed him so thoroughly that ditching me was the easiest thing in the world. I don’t know. But I do know I’m his trash now and not even the recycled stuff that gets separated from the junk. I’m just all up in there with the nasties. The uglies. The discarded titty tassles and cum filled condoms.

FUCK MY LIFE

I know every time a wound opens in my heart, it won’t stay fresh forever and will eventually heal itself through the miracle of Father Time. He really is a fantastic old chap, that Father Time. He just minds his own business over in his little island tree house and works his magic on our broken and road-weary hearts until we are eventually able to crawl
and then stand
and finally walk
away, so far away
from this burning heap of debris that we collected over the course of loving him.

Maybe you’re asking yourself how come I’m not over him yet. Maybe you think I’m pathetic for coming here and writing these words down and maybe I am. Maybe he’s moved on so completely that he doesn’t even think of me all that much anymore.  Well…. I still always think of him.

I guess I’m just a stupid old fool who can’t let go of a person I wanted to look at and talk to forever; or at least until the Grim Reaper came marching on in and took one or maybe the both of us together.

A hopeless romantic bound for heartbreak.  That’s me.

I hope the two of them get a good laugh at my dumbassery while they fuck and suck and lick ice cream cones and collect memories and seashells down at the beach (fucking barf),
then ride scooters over to get a craft beer at the local brewery,
come home and cook vegan steaks and cous-cous,
and watch whatever show they’re into now before they crawl into bed with each other.

I’ll just sit over here on Main Street in some tiny town in Alabama and wonder why it couldn’t be me.

Why wasn’t I enough?
What did I do wrong?

And for the love of all that is holy and divine when is my person gonna come along and hoist my meaty thighs up onto this kitchen counter and feast between them,
not even giving one single solitary fuck that my stomach hangs down a little because that’s just more cushion for the pushin’, you gorgeous goddess,
he digs it ALLLLL
and wants to read me poetry by candlelight on rainy Wednesday nights
and fix my broken cabinet,
cut my grass,
take my trash out every Tuesday and Friday and I don’t even have to remind him, and for that alone I will straddle his Lincoln and ride him into next week every single day for the rest of his life,
or until it breaks down, whichever comes first,
at which point I will just fondle his man-meat lazily on Sunday afternoons while he’s reading whatever it is the man likes to read, I don’t really care.
He can read every edition of Calvin and Hobbes til he knows the words by heart, and then recite them to me while he’s sudsing his middle aged body in the shower and I’m trying to figure out if this new cellulite cream I bought is actually working on my meaty thighs, even though I know it doesn’t really matter because when he gets out of that shower he’s gonna bite all the wrinkles that live underneath my ass cheeks and then whisper love into my aching heart.

We’ll go to lunch afterward,
and on the way home, he’ll show me the spider-lillies in bloom down by the river,
then buy me a cupcake. 
Later, we’ll grill asparagus and New York Strips on the grill
and watch Come From Away and ugly cry for the goodness of humanity (ok, maybe that’s just me that will ugly cry)
Then crawl into bed with hands and fingers and mouths that seek and then find the
beautiful
evil
aching
breaking
beating
tortured
Collective humanity in each other; bathing in the cleansing stream of its dirty release.

I mean….goddamn.
Is that so much to ask for?

I’m not actually ready for it yet, though

I still wish it was gonna be him ….

That I was his treasure instead of his trash
That he was my pleasure instead of my pain