My breakup with Billy Blue was initially painless, comprised of a mere twenty-seven words in the form of two texts messages after our Super Bowl Sunday plans were squashed by his inability to arrive anywhere on time. As my father always said in his pre-John Wayne, Tommy Lasorda-esque days, “To be early is to be on time; to be on time is to be late; and to be late is inexcusable.”
Bacchus: No seriously, do your own thing. I’m gonna do my own thing. We prob should just do that going forward. This really isn’t working for me.
Billy Blue: Ok.
And there you had it. Two New York Aquarians breaking up--emotionless and haste-free.
After receiving such a concise response from Billy, I knew that I had made the right decision to walk away—to walk away not only from his traditions of tardiness, but also his need to constantly play with my mind and my heart. Had I been looking for that kind of facet in a relationship, I would have just gone camping with a confused transvestite and a bag of ecstasy for a long weekend.
Not only was I certain about my decision to end things with Billy, I was now certain that Billy’s “Monkey Bar” approach to dating that he had always joked about had been in full motion for at least a good week (don’t let go of one until you have a hold of the next). Otherwise, I would have gotten at least a full sentence in response; otherwise, he would have inquired as to why “this” wasn’t working for me; otherwise, there would have some sense of remorse.
For the following week I was sorrow-free, refusing to mourn my first “loss” of 2010. With my friends constantly reminding me of why I was better off without Billy Blue (he was a burrough-er, his Barney Rubble nickname was all too accurate, his beer gut was multiplying by each Sunday Funday), I felt a newfound freedom that I had missed for the past ninety days.
And because I myself did not practice the “Monkey Bar” approach, I woke up on the morning of Sunday, February 14th Valentine-less. Luckily I had planned something far more interesting than a box of chocolates and a sappy romantic comedy for my annual night of love.
Enter Danyelle from Passion Parties. Who needed a Valentine, a boyfriend, or even a blow-up doll when there was a sexpert and her table full of toys to be utilized on this Hallmark holiday? So rather than ordering in Chinese and crying over American Express commercials, I spent my Valentine’s Day testing cooling clit creams, warming anal oils, masturbation sleeves, nipple nibblers, pulsating pocket rockets, and vibrators that somehow incorporated cute, pink bunny rabbits into their quivering silicone cylinders.
$200 and a bottle of vodka later I was so confident that I didn’t need a man for Valentine’s Day or the next forty days and forty nights that I declared myself celibate for Lent.
Good thing I’m not actually Catholic…