Every Dog Has Its Day

I don't believe in kicking someone when they're down. But I'm going to do it anyway, only because I believe it's completely in order.

It's been almost a year since J-Fed moved out. I can still remember the day he moved out like it was yesterday. He was almost Peter Pannish as he signed the lease to his fat newbachelor pad. I could almost hear him singing "I'll never grow up, never grow up, never grow up Not me, Not I, Not me! So there! Never gonna be a man, I won't!"

His departure was like a knife through my heart. I told myself it was only temporary, that he'd eventually come to his senses and return home. I imagined that he'd have some great epiphany and realize all that he'd left behind. Strangely it never occured to me that he needed to go. He had been driving me completely bat shit and turning my world upside down, and with a four-month-old, a five-year-old and two dogs, the last thing I needed was to tend to a man child.

Short of wiping his ass, there was NOTHING I did not do for that "man."

And my reward? A big fat smack in the face and a not-so-courteous "I'll always love you, but I'm not in love with you." 

Yet, I was blinded by love, and apparently stupidity. For the next year, it drove me mad as I sat back and watched him spend all his waking moments with our neighbor. I still remember walking into his apartment just one month after he'd moved out, only to find T.O.W. (the other woman) in his kitchen frying eggs and bacon for that pig.

No matter how hard I tried to reason with him, to elicit some sort of emotional reconciliation with him, my efforts were in vain. It was as if he had been apprehended by some cult that had him convinced that leaving me was the best thing he ever did. But oh no. J-Fed was steadfast in his decision. He had done no wrong. He had thought about this long and hard.