the divorce is final and i don’t have to pay alimony

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break up letters by wastedrita

I recently made the very adult decision to break up with my best friend. Well, we broke up six years ago but we have been in each other’s lives in one way or another for eight years. He took care of me when I couldn’t get out of bed. I did my best to take care of him whenever he allowed me to.  But the time has come and we are no longer growing together…we have grown apart.

I thought it would be harder than this but it’s kinda like getting a haircut. At first it’s weird and you don’t know if you like the person reflected back at you but then a few days pass and life goes on and hair grows back or it doesn’t or it does.

WHATEVER.

I think he loved me in his own way but he never loved me the way I needed him to and that’s ultimately why I am choosing to leave. I am choosing to close the chapter on our life together in order to love myself more completely and not shoulder the guilt of years of toxic love.

I should have known a white dude from the Northwest suburbs and I couldn’t be best friends for life. But I tried anyway because that’s the only way you learn. And my god, did I learn.

It is not his fault he is willfully ignorant and selfish and insensitive but at the same time, it is his fault. Because I had every opportunity to remain ignorant and selfish and insensitive but I chose life. I chose to open my heart up to the world and get hurt and learn and love people the best way I can.

I know a lot of you are probably wide-eyed as you read this scathing review but I honestly, truly, legitimately do not give a flying fuck.

Because when I was fifteen my sister looked me dead in the eyes and said, “You are a waste of god given talent.”

And I never forgot those words. I never, ever, ever let those words go.

Because I would rather have a serpent in my home that I can talk to than a fucking panda bear that lies all the time.

I firmly believe that the things which are the most difficult to hear are the things which need to be repeated over and over and over. Only then can we live authentically. Only then can we move forward and make America……………………………great?

Yeah, I did that.

WHATEVER.

So I am moving on with my life. I have decades left and I haven’t the energy to waste it on people who add nothing to my experience. It’s as plain and as simple as that.

Who wants to be my new best friend?

Nah, I’ll be my own best friend.

change is overrated

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art by wastedrita

I was sold pretty early on the promise of change. Of growth. Of morphing into something or someone different, new, or more evolved. Your entire youth is spent with people commenting on how much you’ve grown or how much you’ve changed since the last time you saw them.

This constant process of changing into something…anything.

You begin to believe that you’re not making progress in life if you aren’t changing or transforming some aspect of your existence. But one day it all slows down doesn’t it? You eventually plateau into adulthood and the changes aren’t readily apparent and more often than not, they are entirely non-existent. You are just you for weeks, months, years at a time.

Those little quirks you thought you would grow out of remain. Your coping mechanisms become amplified times a thousand. Your day to day life remains pretty much unchanged and that’s when doubt creeps in.

And you begin to wonder if change is as imperative now as it was decades ago. As a child you had to grow and change in order for doctors and other adults to map your progress but maybe, maybe adulthood isn’t so much about change as we thought.

Perhaps being an adult is accepting that some days you’re just here. Stuck. Overwhelmed. And none the wiser for any of your trouble but at least, at least, you’re fucking here.

But it seems like such an awful and cruel joke to build someone’s entire life on this premise of change and progress only one day to completely disregard the entire thing. To stress growth for so long only to flip the script on us all.

I guess in some ways it’s a relief. To finally see that no one is watching me as closely as they were ten years ago. But sometimes I wonder if that is also the reason why I’ve made such little progress…because if no one is watching then why the hell does it even matter? I don’t have to hold up a report card of my life to anyone except myself and depending on how tough a critic I feel like being that day…well, lethargy suits me just fine.

Change.

Who put such a high premium on the entire experience? Maybe I was born who I am and who I will always be and that’s the beginning and end of it.

 

 

DHS 4N6: IRUS

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January 2009

My favorite time of the year in high school was just after winter break when we started the long road to the State Series. Regionals, Sectionals, and if you were lucky, State. I remember Junior Year I was particularly obsessed with being on the Regional team after a year long hiatus in Kenya. I thought of nothing else from the first tournament until the final regular season competition.

I think it was one of the few times in my life where I was certain that I was good at something. That I was not only good but that I could potentially win every time I stood up to speak. As I’m getting older those moments become few and far between so it’s difficult not to drown in the nostalgia even now.

But besides the overwhelming feeling of self-confidence that being apart of the speech team brought me, today I am also reminded of the man who made all of that possible, for me and hundreds of other young minds before and after my time at DeKalb High School.

Anyone who was able to take the journey through Regionals-Sectionals-State during the time that Mr. Solomon was head coach of the team can probably remember what memory in particular I am referring to.

Before the final rounds Mr. Solomon would take those who were advancing into a room and right before our very eyes become Willy Wonka himself. I admit that I was often anxious and impatient thinking about my upcoming round so some of the magic may have been lost on me…but that does negate the fact that the moment was indeed magical.

Mr. Solomon, in his suspenders and bright blue eyes, would recite the entire boat scene from Willy Wonka and The Chocolate Factory. All of us sitting in that room, all nerves and high hopes, as he guided us through the ‘wondrous boat ride’ that was the end of the forensics season.

There’s no earthly way of knowing which direction we are going…

We’d all open our eyes after he was finished and walk out of the room, readjusting our eyes to the light, ready to conquer whatever the universe had in store.