I want to be witty, no wait!, I need to to be witty, because the last few weeks (months, years, decades) have squeezed the fun out of me.
Just saying "ex" denotes that it's something in the past, something forgotten that lies in ruins, quietly waiting for time to erase any sign of it ever having existed. It's not something that calls you to tell you their mummy is being mean, they've lost a lamp or that they've finally figured out there's something wrong with them. No? Really? I think I gave that diagnoses to you straight out a few weeks back but as USUAL YOU FAILED TO LISTEN TO ME!!!!! Could've saved some time there, Sparky!
I tried relaxing.
I tried meditation.
I tried going to the gym on top of riding the bike to and from work.
I attacked the garden as though it was a small English village and I was a small army of vikings fresh off the boat and I got, wait for it, tennis elbow. Or, maybe it's more like tennis arm. Who cares what it is? It hurts! It really hurts.
There's no justice in this world because if there was this is the kind of pain my ex would have in his precious Johnson right now for no other reason than that it would make me happy and perhaps even make me be witty again, and I want to, no I need to, be witty. If I can get witty I can amuse myself and I'll be so amused I won't bother answering the phone.
I'm going to a meditation workshop on Saturday. Maybe that'll be a blast.