Maybe you were curious what happened to the guy who had his heart destroyed. Maybe you thought he was a pussy for crashing out over the biggest disappointment of his life. Maybe you never knew the backstory. Wandering through Gatsby’s abandoned mansion, you wondered what transpired. Maybe you just stumbled in. In any case, you’re here. [Could have split into two posts. To save space, I refer to my ex-wife as K and the woman I fell in love with after divorce as C.] There’s a scene in the movie Drive where a bad guy calmly slits a man’s wrist (the right way — the long way) and tells him to sit down, be calm, because, “It’s done, it’s over, there’s no pain.” That’s how I imagined C ending things. I held out my hand for a friendly goodbye handshake, and she slit my wrist cooly, as if it was her duty. But, it wasn’t over, and there was pain. I sat down, bleeding. I’m still here, and it still hurts. I hate when people experience a small disruption and attach to it spiritual significanc...
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