While visiting your home, I discovered a pincher-bug colony under your bed—one you had never noticed. I knew then that it was over, because how could you not know there was a bug colony in your bedroom? But, at the time, I said it was “because I need to concentrate on school.”
One morning, while I was using your bathroom, I happened to get a pair of your soiled boxers stuck to my foot because they were, uh, soiled. I was too embarrassed to say anything, so I blamed our breakup on an allergic reaction to your cat.
I came face to face with your mother and her long white gloves. I believe I actually did reveal the truth of this breakup, but you didn’t realize at the time that the picture I drew on that cocktail napkin of your mother making me cry wasn’t a caricature.
I thought a boyfriend who liked to smoke when he was tipsy was cute in a ‘90s-type way, until I realized you were the drunk kissy-snuggle type who didn’t see the need for showering after smoking an entire pack of cigarettes.
The real reason we broke up is that I discovered you were engaged to be married when I picked up the phone one day and took a message from your fiancée. You may not have heard me clearly, but I was screaming obscenities at you as I left.
Ned Cooper Brill D’Amato:
Your last name, and all potential hyphenated variants thereof, frightened me.
I think I told you at the time that I wasn’t interested in getting serious, but what I meant was “I’m not ready to get serious with a guy who doesn’t like dogs and who constantly ‘forgets’ his wallet when we go out.”
Your penis had a birthmark that brought to mind Satan’s horns and staff.
Your inability to calculate a tip or divide a group meal into fair shares—that drove me crazy. Whatever else I said was a bald-faced lie.
It was your sudden admission that it was my feet that first attracted you. And it feels good to finally admit that.