My rich pimply ex boyfriend (listen alright he wasn’t TECHNICALLY my ‘boyfriend’ but we’d been going out being cute talking all the time and he was about to meet my fucking family on Thanksgiving who, may I add, had never met any of my lovers at this point and probably thought I was a crazy lesbian living in New York City but fuck off ok we’ll call him boyfriend for story purposes) – my rich pimply ex boyfriend threw his suitcase in the trunk of his brand new Mercedes Benz as he proceeded to tell me how excited he was to play in my family’s annual game of turkey bowl (how naïve!). Turkey bowl was a game of football we played Thanksgiving morning on my cousins’ property in the middle of the woods. I told him we’d probably lose, and no one ever passes the ball to people like us, and they’re all fucking athletic, and I’m all psychotic, and you’re all gangly, and we’ll be clumsy together; it’ll be cute. I was in college and nineteen at the time and hadn’t cut my hair yet or started wearing men’s clothing, which later would confirm for my family that I definitely was a crazy lesbian living in New York City.
It all started when we crossed the border. It started when we left New York and entered… New Jersey. My dad had sorta given me directions already, and I swore to my ex boyf that I knew the way, and we didn’t need a GPS. He trusted me (how pathetic). And that’s when I accidently turned a two hour trip into a four and a half hour trip with like 60 bucks in toll fines because we kept getting off at the wrong exit and getting back on and off and on and off again. Now I thought this was FUNNY. How fun. Look at us being all cute getting lost together. Look there’s a cow. But he didn’t find this fun at all. And I think he really misinterpreted what kinda person I was. I think he thought I was rich. After all, I did live in the west village on a cobble stoned street and all my friends were high class and probably as rich as him, but SWEETIE I was just a scholarship student who lived in a box, on a twin sized bed, and this crap just happened to be in the west village. That poor boy didn’t know I was in the class closet. I can’t tell if that was my fault or not. New York is a special place where you can be whoever you want and you can essentially run away from home. Now why did I think it was ok to bring him back with me? Why did I not know that my secret would be blown? You live and you learn is all I gotta say.
When we pulled up to the log cabin I couldn’t tell if he was disappointed in the neighbourhood, size of the house or in me. He wasn’t the same gangly, weird, squeaky-voiced guy: I actually felt like he hated me (HA HA HA HA HA). Which I thought was really funny because I loved when shit like this happened to me. I loved fighting and complaining and breaking up. A year before, I wrote a play about the rich Upper East Side guy I had a messy love affair with and didn’t change his name because he wrecked me (how you gonna wreck me like that?). At that time, I was the type of artist who thought you have to suffer to create (still kinda am HA - stay away from me).
My family 100% made him feel like shit. At first they were excited to have another tall guy because Bri’s husband is absurdly tall and is a great asset on the field, but they soon realized my ex boyfriend was terrible (what did you expect). They tried to be nice by passing the football to him, but he never caught any and it was always embarrassing to get a pass and not catch it because the spotlights on you the entire way back to the line up and you're doing the walk of shame back to your places behind the QB - it’s always slow and painful. The one time he did catch a pity throw, the way they expressed the well done was so funny it was as if they were congratulating a baby on pooping. I felt so bad for him because he was me before I stopped giving a fuck about what suburban folks thought of me. I was different and one day they will come to appreciate me but I’ll hold a grudge (HA, bye!).
He ended up leaving before Thanksgiving dinner which he blamed on this and that and it wasn’t about me. When I got back to New York he came over to break up with me and made up some reason about him not wanting any distraction from his hard work, (where he drove a rented Lamborghini with a giant pizza printed on it around America to promote some app/start up) and he cried a little. I later will assume he’s just a good actor or at least he just knows how to sell stuff and is a little shiesty/shady because, well, that’s how entrepreneurs are.
Six months later I receive a text from my friend. He said something like, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re doing right now but sit down cause you’re gonna die/disappear into oblivion bitch sit”. He sent me screenshot after screenshot after screenshot. All taken from my ex boyfriend’s Instagram (he blocked me). They were pictures of him and my roommate in Miami. In California. At the standard hotel. At happy hour. In Mexico. At a Knicks game. On the streets of New York. WHAT THE FUCK. My ex boyfriend and my roommate holding hands, kissing, cuddling all over Instagram. For six months she had not posted anything about him on her instagram for the sake of the fucking secret. My roommate played me. My RICH roommate who had a RICH gigantic room yet paid the same as me. My GORGEOUS roommate who swore he was UGLY. My roommate - my best friend. She worked at WeWork back then and always sold her work lifestyle like it was just one big party, always having happy hour and tacos on Tuesday and always taking these trips to Miami. California. Mexico. I wondered if my idea of her and WeWork were actually just a grand delusion - I genuinely was considering applying. All the dates, all the lies met up. Did she even have coworkers? Oh my god. My roommate who I cried in front of about how depressed I was about my ex boyfriend. She told me he was ugly and pimply! He was young and immature! The melodrama! The farce! The irony. DID SHE EVEN HAVE COWORKERS? My life was a lie. Ha. MY co-workers told me to put crickets in her bed when I moved out. Cockroaches. My manager told me to pee on her pillows! To poop in the corner of her room and cover it up. The stranger I met in the bar told me to put mayonnaise in her toothpaste. Dye in her shampoo. Spiders in the toilet. Do rich people even work at WeWork? Did she even have a JOB?
Jerk