The Ex, The Tequila and The Reason Why I'm Single

“Never make someone a priority, when all you are to them is an option."

There comes a time in most relationships, (especially today, in America, in 2007) when things just don’t work out. The honeymoon phase becomes a distant memory, "Mr. right" turns into what-the-f*ck-was-I-thinking and the person we thought could be "the one", is as bad as a hangover in Las Vegas.

(At least that seems to be the reason for the divorced population today, with 50% of marriages ending in divorce, but what do I know, I’ve never been married).

Sometimes there are subtle signs that the relationship is over, for example, getting married in Las Vegas, constant arguing, loss of interest in the same activities, dry boring sex, cheating, excessive drinking, heroin, etc.

Hollywood ‘A-listers’ continue to set such prime examples of what not to do. Especially Britney, y’all, because shaving your head, beating cars with umbrellas and popping out two babies in less than a year, apparently will not save a marriage.

So instead I look to family for a better idea of what a successful relationship could be. My grandparents were married for 52 years, my parents 30 years and well, I’m single. Nice.

Relationships take time, effort and energy and at this point, I’ve clocked out and lost interest.

Am I bitter? Maybe.

Do I need to get laid? Perhaps.

However, I’m not in a hurry to meet the next man controlled by his genitals.

My last relationship ended after a night of drinking way too much tequila.

Forget drunk dialing, I hopped the fence to my ex’s apartment complex, stumbled up the stairs, only to find him in bed with another woman. He casually tried to explain to me that he was naked because he’d just gotten out of the shower, when this woman had miraculously appeared in his bed.

Along with the leprechaun in his laundry basket, the unicorn in his closet and the skid marks in his boxer-briefs.

“See babe, what had happened was”…

(You see, the thing that gets me, is not the fact that he was cheating, but the fact that he continued to lie about it. I mean you’re caught buddy. It’s over. The hole you are digging,’ is deep into the walls of her vagina. Admit you f*cked up and move on).

At the time, my blurred vision allowed me to see through his lie and somehow through my drunken fury and double vision, I managed to punch him square in the jaw. Then, afraid he was going to call the cops on me, a drunk and violent trespasser, supposed girlfriend, I fled (stumbled) back downstairs. Maneuvering through some bushes, I did a couple back-flips, a somersault and used my peripherals before diving into the car where my friend was waiting, for a quick getaway.

(I was James Bond 007 in my former life, or in other words, I couldn’t walk because I was so heavily intoxicated).

This encounter was the first and only time in my life that being drunk and ambitious was beneficial. I’m not saying we had the best relationship aside from the drinking and the other women, but that night pretty much killed any future talks about, “where are we going with this?”