“Are you okay?” my inner voice asked, as I shakily poured wine into an adult sippy cup to take my dog out for a walk. No, not really, but thanks for asking, Concerned Inner Voice of My Empty Being.
Obviously, y’all know that shit has been bleak for me for … the past five years. In fact, The Broke Bitch Blog’s fifth anniversary came and went without so much as a soft sneeze because I was at an Irish bar I’ve been known to haunt with my scumbag-colleague Enabler Dan trying to hypnotize the bartender via steady, unflinching eye contact to have sex with me. Results were as to be expected.
Then, for Halloween, instead of dressing up as Spongebob or a Sailor Scout per the Lord’s will, I was at home, watching Family Guy, eating pizza, drinking wine, and shooting Carnivore Care premium recovery food mixture into a syringe to feed my ailing gecko child. That’s right, I spent another $100 to get an arsenal of calcium and vitamin shots to keep my little girl alive. And every day, I’d come home, check her vitals, take her out of the tank, and feed her in my palm. I’d also do God’s work by killing off the crickets that had grown freakishly large due to lack of predation. It’s kinda like how, in Ancient Sparta, Spartans would capture prisoners of war and take them as slaves, periodically ask them which one among them was the strongest, and then take them out to pasture and execute them. So too did I do with the crickets. Because I couldn’t have them turning on my child.
And that’s what I’ve been doing for the past two and a half weeks.
Last night, I came home and found my little girl dead in her tank, eyes sunken in, rigid little body, and innards hollowed out by those dick-demons I let live in her tank on the off chance she would grow strong enough to hunt again. I couldn’t even pretend that she could come back to life with a child’s wish (…). I just kept looking at her. Did she die peacefully, or was she still alive when they started eating her? My poor girl. I flushed her down the toilet, per her wishes, and then flung myself onto the bed and cried quarts into my pillows like Arial did after her dad destroyed that statue of her boyfriend.
It’s times like this when being single really fucking sucks. I screamed, “Somebody hold me!” into the dark, empty void, and heard only windswept silence and the echoes of my desperate voice ricocheting off the hollow walls of my Sad Bitch Abode. NO ONE ANSWERED. NO ONE IS COMING.
I just had fucking Planet Earth play out in my home and there is no readily-available bosom to cry into.
My heart hurts. Or, that clump of tissue where my heart used to be. It’s a throat-closing, neck-clenching heartbreak. I can list 10 people in six seconds flat whom I would’ve rather had die instead. Too morbid? Well, you read this blog. You know what you came here for.
So, what’s left to do but barricade myself behind a makeshift fortress made of Tostitos, rum, string cheese, and bacon? Cry into my dog’s fur again, look into his dark eyes and be reminded that he, too, shall die someday, and I’ll never know if he ever really loved me or if he loved me because I covered his vet bills?
Why must pets die? There is no comparable earthly hurt to this. I exempt cat lovers, though, because y’all literally opted into an abusive relationship in which you’re treated like shit till the day it dies and then mourn its death until the next abusive relationship.
Am I listening to Mariah Carey and Boyz II Men’s One Sweet Day right now and wishing someone would just walk through the door and kill me? Yes.
What do well-adjusted people do with a swollen heart?
P.S. If y’all aren’t sending me wine after this then you’re not my real friends. There, I said it.