My memory is just fine, Facebook. THANKS.

You know those Facebook Memories where it shows you what you were doing on this day however many years ago?

The one I just saw might as well have said, “Ha ha, remember that time you were about to fuck up your whole life? MAN! Good times,” and then punched me in the stomach.

Eat a dick, Facebook.

All things considered, my life has turned out pretty well, but damn — between careers and homes and relationships and assholes, that was a lot of progress to process before I even finished my coffee. This probably explains why I’m so hesitant to change very much in those realms right now.

Unless Robert Downey Jr. calls. Then all bets are off. And so are my panties. (Joking. I would never have on underwear if I were anywhere NEAR Robert Downey Jr. I would always wear dresses and trampy nightgowns and go commando, so he could have a 24/7 all-access pass.)

The Space-Time Continuum and Breakup Aftershocks

Via XOJane: When My Boyfriend Moved Out of Our Apartment, it Felt Like Breaking Up Again

I can absolutely understand this. I was the one who moved out, but I still “see” him — just in my brain, in my phone, on highway billboards, songs, TV characters. When I like someone, I see them in a lot of weird places.

Mercifully, I don’t think his brain operates this way, but if he’d moved out and I was alone in “our” apartment, I think I’d have cried even more, hidden even more.

I don’t like my current apartment, and I’m planning to leave it soon. During my brief attempt at therapy, even the doctor said it sounded like “an easy place to be depressed.” Fucked up, right? What, just a couch and a TV and bare, asylum-white walls didn’t make the cover of “Martha Stewart Living?” Fuck you, it’s minimalist!

It IS an easy place to be depressed, and I wallowed and cried and hated myself and made horrible life choices* and cried some more. I keep faltering/getting set back in taking the next steps in getting a new place, but hopefully soon.

* I did buy a new bed, and sheets. If you’re going to be having ill-advised sex and then spending the next day in bed crying about it, you gotta be comfy.