I had a friend not so long ago, W. We were inseparable. A loud and rambunctious pair that painted Johannesburg red on a regular basis, spoke to people in Australian accents, sang awful karaoke together and took time off work to get our hair done by my gay and flamboyant hairdresser.
W then started going out with someone. Things chnaged, as they do, but she was still there to party with me and help me through my break up with Ex S.
Then, unwittingly, she introduced me to Small Bum. He is good friends with her boyfriend. For a while we all double dated and until recently, went away together. It seemed we had a good thing going. For a while anyway.
But we had a massive fallout. I credit this to general growing apart, having close but different relationships and a large portion was that, sadly, she got bored of me I think, and became unecessarily bitchy. She made me feel miserbale for the most part, so that was that.
I haven't heard from her since Small Bum axed me. This hurts as much as the axing itself. She was the one that pushed us together afterall, and gave me constant encouraging feedback during the early stages of our [farcical] budding love affair. I thought at least I'd have heard something from her, if there was ever a time to bridge the gap.
I went out on Friday to C's birthday party. W was there, hanging all over her boyfriend,along with a couple of Small Bum's mates. I walked straight into a snake pit not 48 hours after the break up.
It hurt like hell.
I got absolutely wasted, that lovely cynical wasted where if a man groped my ass, I'd turn around and promptly tell him to go fuck himself. Or if anyone told me to get back on the bandwagon and flirt with random men, I'd tell them that I'd rather suck shit through a straw.
"No man musht dare come near me I'll kill him proper. Men, they musht all die, bashtards!" Something like that.
But the most hurtful part of the evening was that W didn't even look at me. Expecting her to come up to me and say, "I'm sorry about what happened," is obviously asking too much. But even her boyfreind managed to hug me and tell me he's sorry about it all. And Small Bum's flatmate. I would've loved a hug from W. But not a squeak.
She's probably laughing about my pain, hedging her bets about our break up weeks ago.
I went to Moloko with my friends, drank tequila after tequila, and stopped to reassess my life when I started chomping an apple in the middle of the dance floor.
Well at least I held it together enough not to cry in front of his mates.
Saturday was spent in front of a roaring fire with good company an dlots of red wine. I feel apart again on Saturday night and Sunday. So I made like Monica and scrubbed my flat from top to bottom and washed all my clothes. At least now his smell is gone. Less the sporadic crying, I'm holding up.