Remember the Friends episode when Monica and Rachel and Phoebe decided to cleanse themselves of all the asshole men they'd dated by burning mementos from failed relationships in the middle of the living room?
I actually considered doing that recently.
I had my mementos all picked out.
A Notre Dame t-shirt from the "I love you but I can't be with you" radio producer. Fuck the Fighting Irish.
A Hagerstown minor league foul ball from the media pundit who couldn't love anyone nearly as much as he loved himself. He lives in Alaska now but some days he still feels to close for comfort.
The North by Northwest DVD the conservative blogger gave me on the day he decided he had to break up with me so he could take care of his mentally unstable ex-girlfriend. I got Cary Grant and a box of chocolates and she got an engagement ring.
A single navy blue dress sock belonging to the gorgeous IT guy (an anomaly I know) who got me drunk at Russia House, fucked me on my couch and left my apartment before the spermicide could dry. I hope he got frost bite on his exposed toes and walks with a gimp now.
The Tiffany silver hoops I received one Christmas from the boy who would become my best friend and later meet a girl who wouldn't allow him to talk to me anymore. I wonder if he ever gets uncomfortable having his balls tucked up behind him like that?
I'm inclined to pile that stuff up along with a few dozen other keepsakes I've held onto from my shit show relationships over the years, bust out my Zippo, and build myself one mother of a brokenhearted bonfire.
I'd like to dance around like a possessed banshee in full Stevie Nicks regalia and chant Alanis Morissette songs as I watched the refuse burn in effigy to all the fucktards I so stupidly allowed into my heart, my head, and my hooch.
The picture of him standing in the waves of Calibogue Sound.
Burn.
The tucked away love note he wrote me that I hid in my dog-eared copy of The Sun Also Rises.
Burn.
The pretty blue pebble I collected during our hike in Great Falls.
Burn.
The Springsteen mix CD he gave me on our third date.
Burn.
The lacy thong he slipped off me that time in the elevator.
Burn.
The ribbon from the yellow roses he sent me for Valentine's Day.
Burn.
The acoustic guitar he used to teach me the chords to Stairway to Heaven.
Burn.
The copy of Atlas Shrugged he gave me as a goodbye gift when I left home for DC.
Burn.
The boxer shorts he let me wear whenever I slept over.
Burn.
The diamond ring he used to propose to me on Christmas Day.
Sold.
Why burn it when you can hock it now to buy Prada later?
I'm a bitter, angst-filled, resentful, semi-psycho, 30-something pyromaniac with trust issues and a bad case of man cooties.
But I'm no fool.
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