Tuesday was apparently National Text Your Ex Day–an unofficial holiday created, no doubt, by people who have bad ideas, and practiced only by people who like to put bad ideas into action. Although I fall into both these categories, I did not, in fact, text any of my exes Tuesday because I just didn’t get drunk enough. But the fallout from Text Your Ex Day conveniently landed on Halloween, and I’m sure involved a significant amount of candy and macabre thoughts, fitting in well with the general ambiance of the holiday yesterday. Some (me) might call candy and tears a normal Saturday night, but I’m sure for anyone who made the mistake of actually texting their ex, the amount of both needed to recover from a return text from their ex’s wife or husband was far in excess of my normal breakdowns. At least I can take solace in knowing that I was not the only one who treated herself to Xanax, Adderall, and cupcakes yesterday.
I also did not get any texts Tuesday. I don’t get texts from my exes, because I’m easy to forget and even if that weren’t the case, their wives are a constant and convenient reminder of the upgrade they made from me. But if I did get these texts, I would have a stock wedding photo on hand to immediately send back. And I’m talking about a photo of me, here, not of some cat wedding I officiated. Specifically, a photo of me, with a man (my man), in a wedding dress (I’m in the wedding dress), looking elated (both of us) about the huge rock on my finger (ca$h money), with diamonds, sapphires, and gummy candy raining down in the background (in and or around my mouth). Oh, and we’d both be riding on a Pegasus. Obviously. If I were to really do it right, I would fake a wedding registry in anticipation of next year’s Text Your Ex Day.
I had an ex that did that once, actually. It was super creepy, but certainly not creepier than my stalking habit, which invariably lead me to that information. And did I mention I found out it was fake through my ex–a prerequisite to which was calling attention to the fact I knew. I really showed him! No, no, I didn’t. Well, I showed him something … the shame of him knowing how creepy I am was enough to keep me from ever wanting to contact him again, even on a national day that encourages creepy stalking. I might as well tattoo “stalker” on my forehead as a public service announcement. Isn’t there a website on which people like me are supposed to register? Oh yeah, Twitter.