I’m typing because everyone knows what will happen if I don’t. I’ll pick up the damn phone and I’ll press the stupid buttons and have a conversation that doesn’t fix anything and then cry until I’m ninety.
It wouldn’t even be the right conversation. My prediction is this one:
ME:
Hi.
HIM:
Hi. What’s up?
ME:
Oh you know, I’m just sadder than the population of SadLand and I wish my face would fall off so at least the crying would stop. What’s up with you?
HIM:
Nothing really, just playing Words With Friends.
ME:
You did ‘her’ and then ‘toned’. Are you trying to tell me something?
HIM:
What?
ME:
Are you leaving me because there’s someone else and she’s more toned than me? Why didn’t you just tell me?
HIM:
I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.
ME:
When are you coming home?
HIM:
I don’t think I am. Remember?
ME:
NO. That was an IMAGINARY conversation for IDIOTS. Come home right now!
HIM:
No.
ME:
Why are you doing this to me?
HIM:
I think I should go.
ME:
Don’t go! Please! I miss you! Come home!
HIM:
Bye Anna.
ME:
Everything I ever loved has been taken from me I can’t go on like this I’m going to overdose on Panadol and you will always regret it no one will ever love you as much as I do.
So you see, there’s no possible way I can stop typing.
