We’ve been divorced since 2016. We’ve, uh, met up a few times over the years, but that ended around 2019.
And at this point, I can’t recall the last time we could talk like adults who love each other intensely but didn’t make it work. We both know damn well that what we had isn’t repeatable.
Surprisingly, we got on the topic of FetLife without it going completely off the rails. Turns out the guy she left me for is dead and did her the disservice of assigning her as POA before shuffling off this mortal coil.
Then there was another (influencer) guy whose life she decided to ruin when he couldn’t take a hint.
I don’t really consider myself Machiavellian, but together, we are. Take that for what you will.
But we just talked like when we were 30. I covered my dad’s struggles with the move to his new assisted-living facility, and she told me about what her boys were up to (not what I was expecting). And then, it’s after 1 a.m.
I almost wish we’d at least just fought. I don’t like to be reminded of why we worked so well until we didn’t.
Ouch. Throwing things goes too far.
Her arm isn’t great, so it goes less far than you might imagine. The hilarious thing was the first time she did that, it was her pot pipe. Like, you’re trying to chill and then break the very thing that helps with that?
She then moved on to full beer cans. As I said, she’s not a healthy connection. But I have little say in what my heart comes up with validation for, and as I’m also absurdly unstable, I can’t really attack her glass house.