And here is something I wrote a while ago that is kind of meh and not in my typical style (not that anyone knows what that means). It's kind of a space filler. Enjoy it to the best of your abilities.
The stereotypical neurotic partner calls too often. He or she will leave you a voicemail every hour just to “make sure you’re safe”. Follow you around at parties, must know the time you’ll be back, down to the second, if you have a friend of the opposite sex, you’re cheating…and when you go out with the guys or gals, there “is” a stripper involved and he/she just KNOWS it. Sometimes, they will go through your junk, and assign false meaning to that card or t-shirt you still have from your ex, or in this case, cookie crumbs.
Max was unaware of his ailment. Had he any idea the sort of boyfriend he was, things might have ended differently. The day he went through my purse was the last straw.
Amongst the spilled Tic Tacs, tampons, and empty bottles of hand sanitizer littered in the pockets, rested a fourth of an Oreo, lonely, neglected, cream-less. I had never liked sweets, so it was an unusual thing to find in my purse. But Max, searching like a police dog with a purpose, discovered it.
“What the hell is this?” He demanded.
I stared blankly and blinked three times.
“Uh…An old Oreo?”
“You don’t like Oreos.”
“So?”
“Where did you get it?”
“Does it even matter?”
I frowned.
“You’re hiding something.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m really not…”
Max burst into tears. The big git was overemotional and clingy.
“Hey, Max. Need a tampon?” I laughed. He did not find it funny.
“You think you’re so clever, Francine? Well I know what this is. There’s another man isn’t there? Why the hell else would you have this?”
He held up the Oreo bit, crumbling at the edges, and gave me an accusatory stare.
“Dude. Chill.”
Needless to say, we were over.
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