8   +   2   =  

So, last week I shared some of the asshole moves my ex-boyfriend pulled during and after our breakup, but it got so much worse ( and yet, the story gets better — funny how that works ). I was so excited to get to the end of the story I started that almost forgot to take you on a little tangential detour about some breakup shit that would only happen to me.

Rewind to before I found out which particular girl he was replacing me with, when I intuitively knew he was seeing someone, but he kept playing the hysterical woman card, insisting that I was a head-trippin’, jealous fool. One fateful night we were hanging out at our regular bar with some friends, and he invited me to smoke a joint out front. It’s not kind of thing I passed up, so I agreed without knowing he’d also invited three of his new, young, little hippy groupies. Part of me wanted to back out, part of me wanted to be cool and his friend, part of me wanted to cock-block, and all of me wanted to smoke a joint, so I decided to muscle through. Little did I know…


He asked us, did we want to hear the recording of the poem he’d been working on in the studio all day. I was fairly certain I did not, but I didn’t want to skulk away in defeat, either. I never really liked his writing style, but I support writing and performance, so I never let on that I wasn’t that impressed with his jingle-jangly words delivered with overwhelming monotony. If you ask me, wannabe clever wordplay is far less fancy than allowing yourself to be vulnerable for an audience.

I certainly hoped it wasn’t the poem I’d heard all too many times about the relationship he’d almost gotten into right before me, a poem I’d actually performed with him as a team piece, which led to us hooking up, which led me to the misery that was soon to come. It was not that poem.

Instead, it was a poem detailing his notable fantasies from early adolescence till sometime not too long before we got together, starting with his grade-school teacher and moving on to ex-girlfriends, strippers, Jenna Jamison and the like, melding women together like smeared makeup after a money shot.

I hated this poem.

I started to feel queasy. I’d only had one drink and smoked pot pretty much daily at the time, so it wasn’t that. It wasn’t whatever I had or had not eaten due to my hunger-striking broken heart. It was that damn poem.

I started to throw up in my mouth. I didn’t want to show any weakness to him or those floozies. Acrid humiliation spewed into my mouth, puffing my cheeks out hamster-style. I bowed my head hoping no one would notice. And then I swallowed. I alternated between taking slow, deep breaths through my nostrils, heaving, and swallowing, and when the joint came around, I hit it so as to conceal my inner barfing.

I couldn’t believe it: his poetry made me puke! And despite my hot, flushed, nauseousness, I saw the humor.

At a certain point, he asked if I was okay. I said yeah and tried to play it off like I wasn’t hurling over his poem’s shittiness. I tightened up, hoping that maybe I could somehow flex my internal organs enough to squeeze my way through that never-ending joint.

And then, for the first time since I was a wee little babe, I sharted. Forget about adding insult to injury — this was adding shart to vomit to breakup.

I couldn’t wait to tell my friends. I mean, how classic is that shit?! His poetry was so bad, it literally made me sick — in more ways than one. Who else does this happen to? Do you know anyone who has sharted over a poem? A sex-poem, no less? I mean, I know I’m self-deprecating an’ all, but come the fuck on!

Thank God I was wearing panties, which isn’t always the case. Too bad they weren’t my brave girl panties, which might’ve given me the self dignity to just say no to that stupid fucking joint in the first place.

And thank God I was wearing a long skirt — perfect for hiding horrible-poetry-induced sharts. And thank God it was a short waddle home ( after throwing my sharty boy-shorts out in the ladies room ).

But most of all, thank God I never have to hear that shitty, sharty poem EVER AGAIN.

Please join me next week as we journey towards a more empowered moment in my breakup history!

To read Part 3, click here.