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Has it been nearly two months since I last bitched about being ghosted? In that timeframe I literally framed a photo of my ghoster so I could sit and stare at his mug while swilling $9.99 chardonnay. I’m an emotional scab picker; hence, that last swirl and chug of my moderately priced chardonnay was topped off by my eyes landing squarely on his while silently mouthing “why?”

Let me tell you why: he was a lying, fake asshole. Frankly, I have no idea who I allowed into my apartment—-let alone my life. He’s an expert at zeroing in on one’s soft, needy emotional underbelly. And as a lonely old man I walked with my eyes—-and heart opened for a new adventure. I sure as hell got one, didn’t I?

But I’m not here to waste anymore time over chucklefuck’s missed opportunity. I mean, had he stuck around I’d probably be paying for MADONNA concert tickets at this stage. But I digress; I’ve moved on from endless Adele tunes to Amy Winehouse. I highly recommend Winehouse when ripping a photo from a silver-plate frame and shredding it into yesterday’s garbage.

So don’t cry for me Argentina; I’m okay. I’m moving on. Things are going to be okay around here.

Then mother died.