Culled from GIM cause this is how a brother feels. In my case, two girls.
I find now that rather than write something vulgar or humorous, I tend
not to be able to write unless the subject matter is one which affects
me directly.... or to be disgustingly honest, emotionally.
This morning, it suddenly occurred to me that I've just reached the end of a particular sequence all of us have gone through before (and still will go through). This one will shock those who know me...
There are 4 stages in a break-up. I hereby classify them as Anger, Despair, Loneliness and Recognition. Let me explain....
Yes, there was a girl. Yes, I am capable of feeling for something other than myself. Yes, this is Womilee. No, I'm not on my period. I was simply put in a position I'm not accustomed to. Cut the long story short, I was her rebound guy, and I didn't realize it till it was over. Now that the sob story is done, the tissues have stopped being passed around, I'd like to enlighten you all on the stages which I mentioned. This way, next time your heart gets used as a shoe rag, at least you'll know what the fuck exactly you're going through.
ANGER: this is my favorite stage. Here, you're so gangsta, 50 Cent ain't got nothing on you. The theme music playing in your head is a combination of B.M.F and You Don't Have To Call. Here, its all fuck this, and fuck that, and fuck her and her momma too! Anyone who did that shit to you is fucked up anyway, and you don't need no fucked up people around you. Matter of fact, fuck that bitch! This my friend is what is known as lying to your goddamn self.... Its also the prelude to stage 2
DESPAIR: your imaginary posse has left. The gangsta rap in the background has faded away, and has been replaced Tracy Chapman's suicidal guitar strumming. You've gone on an impressive fucking spree, peeked up every single skirt in a 10 mile radius. And even when you've consumed more booze in a week than you did the whole of last year, all you can think is 'so she's not gonna call?' You haven't stopped lying to yourself here though. You deleted her details from your phone, but lets be real fool, you know her number by heart. You could make an oscar-award winning, full length motion picture with those digits. But still, she could call. Just to say hi. You're leaning towards the 3rd and most painful stage.
LONELINESS: you know what they say about the shit hitting the fan? Well this stage is exactly what they're talking about. It is torture. Ur liver has finally failed you, and so has your dick. You simply cannot or do not want to fuck anyone anymore. All you want to do is call her. You want to hear her laugh, or say that word she says in a weird way or tease her about that strange lil thing she does sometimes. You drive by that place that the two of you used to go have chips, wondering if she's inside with someone else. Every single car that remotely resembles hers automatically becomes an object of extreme interest to you. And God help you if you smell that scent she likes nearby, your ass is toast for the next couple of days.
You keep staring at your phone, hoping that by some fluke of nature, she'll call. But the annoying bastard in your head called reality tells you to stop wasting your time. You acted like a jackass when it ended, and you're gonna pay for it.
I hate to tell you good people this honest truth, but stage 3 sometimes may not end. You might wallow in misery and self pity for little while and then move on.... Or you may just continue the rest of your days as the saddest muthafucker to lose something since ... What's the name of that woman who contested the PDP primaries again? Anyways, if you're lucky (and I pray you are...), you'll move one to the fourth and final stage.
RECOGNITION: finally! At last! You've seen the light! It took fucking forever, but you now understand what actually happened. Fuck who's fault it was (even though it still is that bitch's fault), but dammit, life's too short. You can let it go now. Suddenly, your balls reappear in your trousers. You can stand to hear her voice or see her or even have a cordial conversation with her.
Yes, she took your feelings and traded them on the stock exchange, but you know... Shit happens. You're no saint yourself my friend. Give her a shout, see how she's doing. And then, when you've made contact, and you realise that its all good now, your libido awakens with a vengance and it occurs to you that cos of this bitch, you aint gotten nookie in a bit. And when you realise this shit ...
Excuse me gentlefolk, I gotta go get me some ...
... Btw, I'm Womilee ...
This morning, it suddenly occurred to me that I've just reached the end of a particular sequence all of us have gone through before (and still will go through). This one will shock those who know me...
There are 4 stages in a break-up. I hereby classify them as Anger, Despair, Loneliness and Recognition. Let me explain....
Yes, there was a girl. Yes, I am capable of feeling for something other than myself. Yes, this is Womilee. No, I'm not on my period. I was simply put in a position I'm not accustomed to. Cut the long story short, I was her rebound guy, and I didn't realize it till it was over. Now that the sob story is done, the tissues have stopped being passed around, I'd like to enlighten you all on the stages which I mentioned. This way, next time your heart gets used as a shoe rag, at least you'll know what the fuck exactly you're going through.
ANGER: this is my favorite stage. Here, you're so gangsta, 50 Cent ain't got nothing on you. The theme music playing in your head is a combination of B.M.F and You Don't Have To Call. Here, its all fuck this, and fuck that, and fuck her and her momma too! Anyone who did that shit to you is fucked up anyway, and you don't need no fucked up people around you. Matter of fact, fuck that bitch! This my friend is what is known as lying to your goddamn self.... Its also the prelude to stage 2
DESPAIR: your imaginary posse has left. The gangsta rap in the background has faded away, and has been replaced Tracy Chapman's suicidal guitar strumming. You've gone on an impressive fucking spree, peeked up every single skirt in a 10 mile radius. And even when you've consumed more booze in a week than you did the whole of last year, all you can think is 'so she's not gonna call?' You haven't stopped lying to yourself here though. You deleted her details from your phone, but lets be real fool, you know her number by heart. You could make an oscar-award winning, full length motion picture with those digits. But still, she could call. Just to say hi. You're leaning towards the 3rd and most painful stage.
LONELINESS: you know what they say about the shit hitting the fan? Well this stage is exactly what they're talking about. It is torture. Ur liver has finally failed you, and so has your dick. You simply cannot or do not want to fuck anyone anymore. All you want to do is call her. You want to hear her laugh, or say that word she says in a weird way or tease her about that strange lil thing she does sometimes. You drive by that place that the two of you used to go have chips, wondering if she's inside with someone else. Every single car that remotely resembles hers automatically becomes an object of extreme interest to you. And God help you if you smell that scent she likes nearby, your ass is toast for the next couple of days.
You keep staring at your phone, hoping that by some fluke of nature, she'll call. But the annoying bastard in your head called reality tells you to stop wasting your time. You acted like a jackass when it ended, and you're gonna pay for it.
I hate to tell you good people this honest truth, but stage 3 sometimes may not end. You might wallow in misery and self pity for little while and then move on.... Or you may just continue the rest of your days as the saddest muthafucker to lose something since ... What's the name of that woman who contested the PDP primaries again? Anyways, if you're lucky (and I pray you are...), you'll move one to the fourth and final stage.
RECOGNITION: finally! At last! You've seen the light! It took fucking forever, but you now understand what actually happened. Fuck who's fault it was (even though it still is that bitch's fault), but dammit, life's too short. You can let it go now. Suddenly, your balls reappear in your trousers. You can stand to hear her voice or see her or even have a cordial conversation with her.
Yes, she took your feelings and traded them on the stock exchange, but you know... Shit happens. You're no saint yourself my friend. Give her a shout, see how she's doing. And then, when you've made contact, and you realise that its all good now, your libido awakens with a vengance and it occurs to you that cos of this bitch, you aint gotten nookie in a bit. And when you realise this shit ...
Excuse me gentlefolk, I gotta go get me some ...
... Btw, I'm Womilee ...
everybody goes thru this at a point..but u..two women!!! salute*
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