This was supposed to be easy; I was going to break up with my girlfriend, write a blog about it, and maybe smoke an egregious amount of clinical-grade marijuana. You know, The Good Stuff™.
Lets address point number two: “Write a blog about [breaking up with my girlfirend]”: That didn’t quite work out the way I wanted it to. And not just because I couldn’t quite go through with point number one (break up with my girlfriend).
What happened? After dinner— the dinner where I was supposed to sever the emotional and physical connection with Amanda over creme brulee— I went home and got high. Egregiously high (which is point number three).
My roommate, Drew, was watching something on Netflix— probably Dr. Who or Sherlock or whatever hip shit is available— when I figured I would eat a coconut. Coconuts are always out of season in the High Sierras, but I was high in the Sierras and they only cost a dollar regardless of the season. So I bought a few coconuts.
Butcher knives weren’t on sale but I’m sure you can understand why our kitchen had one of those. Or even thirty.
This wasn’t my first time chopping up a
cocunt coconut with a butcher knife whilst being higher than the Dalai Llama’s kite. It wasn’t my third time either, but still. And it’s like, the hospital workers knew I was blitzed when I showed up with my left pointer finger (or “trigger finger” if you’re playing the home game) hanging on by a thread. They’re professionals; they’ve seen some shit.
But I’ve never seen so much blood in person. That’s mostly because when my mom died all the blood was building up in her internal organs and not on her hospital bed, but I digress.
You have to make a phone call when you go to the hospital. Not because you’re worried about your family wondering about where you are— mine still lives in Orange County so they don’t actively worry where I am. But you wanted to be dramatic. So I called Amanda.
“Baby, I’m at the hospital,” I said.
“Oh my God, is everything okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, I just almost chopped off my trigger finger with a butcher knife.”
“Why would you do that?”
“It was a coconut that did it to me. Everything’s going to be fine— thanks for asking— the doctors said they’ll be able to get it back on.”
“I’m on my way right now.”
“No, please don’t come.”
“Because I’m higher than the Dalai Llama’s kite,” I didn’t say.
Oh yeah. Breaking up with Amanda. Yeah. That didn’t work out. I mean, things didn’t— Amanda and I didn’t break up. Things didn’t work out for me. Things are still working out for us. On paper.
At least the creme brulee was good, although it was unmarred by (ex)girlfriend tears. Which is a crying shame. Or a non-crying shame if you’ve made it this far. I know I haven’t.
What happened was, well, I ordered the creme brulee. At least that went according to plan.
“We’ll split the creme brulee,” I said, knowing full well that she’d be crying so much from the breaking up thing that she’d be having none of it.
“Great, that’ll be out for you shortly,” the server— waitress, if you will— said. I grabbed a hold of Amanda’s hand and squeezed. This was my last planned sign of affection.
“There’s no way I can enjoy this creme brulee without going right now,” she said. She pulled her hand away and headed for whatever corner the restaurant kept its bathroom in. Now’s when I wished that smoking indoors was still legal. Now’s when I wished that I still smoked. On paper. I still smoke, but Amanda doesn’t know that and you better not fucking tell her I swear to God.
Part of the problem with this whole bathroom dalliance of Amanda’s was that this was the time I was supposed to be breaking up up with her. This was supposed to be the time for me to break up with her. This was supposed to be an important moment for the both of us. Instead, it was a moment where I pined for menthols and she was crapping.
I was going to at least be half-way decent when she came back; I was gonna wait for her to put her napkin back on her lap, maybe take a sip or two of her water, and then I would lay down the heart-break. But no, Amanda hadn’t even sat down and she was already dominating the conversation at the table:
“I want to take a pregnancy test,” she started with. She pulled herself back into the table and takes one of those sips and doesn’t even bother with the napkin. Goddamn heathen. This was supposed to be the prelude to the end of our relationship— now? Bad manners showmanship, if that’s even a thing. Maybe it is for hippies, I don’t know.
“Okay,” I said, “How come?”
“I feel weird, you know?” she says.
“No, I don’t. What’s going on?”
“Well, I just went to the bathroom and it was really hard for me to go pee,” she says.
“Go on,” I say, taking a sip of Diet Coke. I decided against getting wine that night because it seemed a little too expensive for a break up. At least, I thought it was a little too expensive for this break-up. Wine is for my future black girlfriend. Diet Coke is for Amanda.
“And when I did go pee it kinda burned a little.”
“So it sounds like you’ve got a UTI.”
“So’s being pregnant.”
“You’re right. Don’t worry about it.”
“Well I have to worry about it now. If one of us is worried about you being pregnant then we both have to worry about you being pregnant.”
“Maybe this wasn’t the best time to talk about it, Charlie.”
“I’d agree with you if you weren’t the one who brought it up.”
“I texted you before dinner and you said nothing about it. You didn’t even reply. You never reply to my texts.”
And, gee wilikers— the bitch was right. I pulled out my phone and saw four missed texts from Amanda— all of them from between 3:51pm and 3:56pm on that Thursday. Shit.
Why didn’t I notice the texts? Because I’m the sucker who bought a Windows Phone. Goddamn, what a mistake. Just like Amanda. Wait, no— that’s a terrible thing to say; that could be my kid inside her. Our kid inside her. Or nothing— just a side-effect of being a vegetarian, you know what I mean? I hope you don’t because even I don’t know what I meant by that; it just seemed like the right thing to say.
Our kid.That feels weird to say. Gosh, I really hope the kid is black— if there is a kid, I mean. This is confusing. I don’t want the kid to be black, actually, and not because it won’t be mine— no. See, I’ve actually always wanted a black kid. For me it’s black kid or no kid at all. Part of the fun of having a black kid is you can tell them how scary the world is and it’s considered “good parenting”. You’re doing the kid a favor. It doesn’t work the same way for white kids— or a kid with autism, regardless of race.
So, no: I did not break up with Amanda. She totally cock-blocked my maneuver except it was a cock-block that keeps the pussy coming. Not that I need it; not to say I’m gay but maybe I’m asexual…which is not to say I don’t fuck— it’s to say I can reproduce without the need for a sexual partner.
Although Amanda would be proof against that.
We shouldn’t have made it past Valentine’s Day. Or Mother’s Day.