Little fails such as sending that fucking text message.  You’re telling yourself not to send that absurd text. Granted, he is the one that sent you 5 pictures, and 5 mini video-clips from a wedding, but that does not give you the okay-thumbs-up-right-on to send the text.  

Take a deep breath, and wallow in your misery for just a couple of minutes.  Stare at the pictures.  Take it all in.  Take in the denim button up shirt.  You were there when he got that denim button up shirt.  Take in the two-tone oxfords he ordered off the internet from Urban Outfitters.  You know this because he sent you an email with five pictures of different pairs of shoes and said “is it stupid to order all of these? Which ones are the best?” Take in the camel colored sweater.  Camel colored sweater? Is that new? Looks good on him.  Take in the- what the hell…is that…hair gel?  Since when does he gel his hair?  And why does it look good? Damn him and his great gelled hair.

He’s thinking: “Hey you! You thought I was going to languish away at a lame college in Georgia and live with my mom and play guitar to an audience of only my own ears because I never had the guts to book a gig even though I’m really talented.  But instead I said ‘fuck you and your twenty-two-dollars-per-hour-pay-rate Apple Inc,’ moved to Los Angeles, and co-founded a non-profit organization! Suck on that, you selfish bitch! You selfish bitch who ripped my heart out of my chest, stomped on it, took a piss on it, shoved it back between my ribs , and stitched my bleeding wounds shut with a thread soaked in sulfuric acid! Oh and by the way: while you’re en route to spend the summer making frappuccinos and reconnecting with your high school non-buddies, take a gander at this picture. This picture is of me and one of your old best friends.  Your old best friend who is now a really successful dancer. Too bad your dance dreams didn’t reach half the extent hers did. Anyways! I’m about to forfeit my year of vegetarianism for some cultural Argentinian beef.  Los Angeles is the shit and I’m never fucking leaving. Good luck on the drive back to Georgia!”

You know this text is a bad idea. You know you should not send the text.  Just type it out, then delete it.  “Are you sure you want to delete the draft?” “Yes I’m very sure!” DO NOT SEND THE TEXT. 

And then…

You send the fucking text.  

The random ten minute chatter between the two of you immediately ceases, and you still haven’t heard from him because you sent that text.  The I-know-I’m-the-one-who-fucked-us-over-but-hey!-let’s-get-married-because-I-miss-you-so-much text.

You’re psychotic.  You’re even worse than he was.  Should have stopped at the “beef looks delicious! your outfit rocks! glad you’re having fun!” Stopping there would have been solid.  You even used the proper ‘your’ and ‘you’re.’ But NO. YOU HAD TO GO AND SEND THE TEXT.

Tomorrow, you will NOT send a text.  The next day, you will NOT send a text.  There will be no accidental phone calls.  No random iTunes gift songs. No hey-I-have-a-faux-question-about-my-MacBook email. Tomorrow, you will set your new cycle. No, not tomorrow. You will start this cycle RIGHT NOW. You are arresting the thought of the deplorable sorry-I-sent-that-pathetic-text text and powering off your phone. 

Also, if you want to get that body you so strongly desire, you shouldn’t join the clean plate club for every meal.  And throw out those delicious mini chocolate bars you bought in Israel.