“Life is all about choices.”  That’s something that is told to me on a regular basis by my mother. By the way, she’s on your side. I can’t stand hearing it any more. Yes, life is all about choices. I chose to do what I did and I know I get little sympathy for it. I’m the bad person in this whole ordeal. I was wrong. You know what’s more annoying than a mother who constantly wants to give her opinion on your relationship? Nothing. You know how many times I have to hear about how stupid I was? I don’t visit my parents very often any more.

Nobody feels sorry for the person who fucks up a relationship. I don’t want anyone to feel sorry. I don’t expect anyone to feel badly for me. I just don’t want to be reminded of it. I know I’m the one who ruined it and the one who ruins it is subjected to nasty glares from the other’s friends when they see each other out. The one who ruins it is not allowed to feel bad or upset or broken, because we did it. The one who ruins it “doesn’t deserve what an awesome person you are” (Did your friends tell you that yet?) The one who ruins it has to live with their decision. We made the choice. I get it.

The one who gets their heart broken gets “are you okay?” texts from people who notice their Facebook status go from In A Relationship to Single. The one who gets their heart broken gets to stay in bed all day in mourning. The one who gets their heart broken has a justifiable reason to eat a tray of pizza by themselves in wee hours of the morning. The one who gets their heart broken is allowed to post stupid, sad song lyrics as their Facebook status for an obnoxiously long period of time. The one who gets their heart broken’s aunt who they only see once a year at Christmas comments on the statuses with motivational quotes she googled. Every one feels sorry for the one who gets their heart broken by the one who ruined it.

If someone would listen to me without saying “Well, you did what you did,” I’d say that I miss you. I’m hoping that feeling goes away soon. The little things you’d say or the things you’d point out, that I never paid much attention to - they’re the things I’m recalling the most. You’d always catch the clock at matching numbers. You’d swear it was a sign. 1:11. 2:22. 3:33. 4:44. 5:55…. I never thought much of it. I find myself catching the clock at matching numbers now. I swear it’s a sign.

I can picture you standing in my kitchen with my shirt on making pancakes for dinner and singing “Jane Says” You’d curse like a sailor as you burned every single pancake, saying your mom always makes it look so easy. You burned yourself with the batter as it splashed off the pan. I wonder if you ever look at the scar on your right hand now and remember those nights. I remember telling you to stop and we’d just go out for something, but you’d say “I’m not giving up. I won’t burn this one.” The dog wouldn’t even eat the ones you offered him. 

Everyone knew you weren’t much of a cook, but you chose not to give up on Aunt Jemima. I’m trying my best to live with the choices I made. I’m trying not to burn anything.

P.S. I’d eat every one of your disgusting pancakes right now if I could.