Sometimes after things end with a person, or someone hurts me, or my heart is broken, I fantasize about egging the person’s house. You know, like when I am sick of being sad and run out of tears and give up on getting them back and decide I don’t want them back at all actually, right around then. I decide I am angry and that they should pay for it and they should feel like absolute shit for making me feel like absolute shit, how dare they. I want revenge. I write up fake plans for how id get back at them, or plans to get them back. But even though that “Skeevy Plan to Retrieve the Boy” (that me and Sara wrote up for 2 hours one day in Rhody market) worked out perfectly… it wasn’t as satisfying as it should have been, or worth it. I write nasty things about them that I wont actually send and I decide if I was sure to not get arrested I would live out the angsty teenage fantasy and slash all of their tires and spray paint their house, even if they still live with their parents, especially if they still live with their parents. All those cliché things would be such beautiful bitter sweet revenge, but none of them would make me feel any better in the long term, they might even make me feel worse. They are silly too, and incredibly immature, and in a way they just wouldn’t even be enough, so I thought of something so much more terrible and so much better.
You’ll never hear what my favorite song is again. You’ll never know what I’ve been playing on repeat and singing in the car and you wont know who showed it to me (hint: it wasn’t you) or where I was the first time I heard it or why it matters to me at all. I’m not going to tell you anything. You wont ever know what book I’m reading or what’s on my mind late at night. You’ll never know when I write something new, especially the things about you, maybe I wont write about you at all anymore, but either way you wont know, you wont see the raw unedited glimpse of the secret universe that is my mind. You wont get a sneak peak into that, not a single dark or beautiful thing. I’m going to watch new TV shows that make me laugh and movies that make me cry and I wont tell you to watch them so you can laugh or cry or feel incredibly alive and human too, you no longer have the privilege of knowing where I get my comic relief, or catharsis day to day. I am going to go beautiful places and do beautiful things and I’ll take pictures of it all and you’ll never see a single one. You wont hear any of my crazy stories anymore, or about what gets me through, or makes me tick. I wont call you when I’m scared, and you wont get to know any of my weak spots, or if I cried myself to sleep last night, or laughed til I cried this morning.
You won’t know me anymore. I am going to grow and grow and grow, and I will inevitably change too, in all the best ways. I’ll accomplish a lot. I’m going to create things and win things and run a million miles and get faster and stronger and smarter. I’ll graduate college and get a job and be the happiest I’ve ever been and won’t share any of it with you and you’ll have to hear about it all from a friend. I’ll finally win a race and publish my writing somewhere and learn to play an instrument and you won’t have anything to do with any of it, you won’t know how I finally figured it all out, and won’t even be allowed to congratulate me.
You won’t recognize me. I’ll grow my hair out and get a whole new wardrobe and wear a different scent. I wont send you any pictures and you will never see me, smell me, hear me, or touch me again. You wont be allowed to see me when you are “bored” or “lonely” or miss me or realize you fucked up big time, you wont get to catch up with me over coffee or drinks and you wont know if you’re ever in my dreams or if I’m seeing someone new. And I promise will see someone new. I’ll see whoever I want and I will share experiences with them that you decided you didn’t want anymore. I will have fun, I am allowed, but you are no longer allowed to be a part of that. You wont be invited on any impromptu adventures or even for rainy nights of drinks and music in bed and contemplating life, and that doesn’t mean I will have to do any of those things alone.
You won’t hear about my friends, if everyone in the Sunshine House is getting along these days, or what me and Bari stole from that party this time, or what insane situation Amanda and I got ourselves into. You won’t know who I cut out or who I let in and you won’t hear about how my siblings are doing in school or if I miss my little sister like crazy or if my brother wrote a new rap. You won’t get to know where my mom’s traveling next or if I’ll be joining her and you won’t know if I’m staying with her or my dad for the summer, or if he got a new dog yet.
You wont know anything and you’ll hardly know me and you’ll miss out on all the things I learn and figure out and discover and you’ll miss out on me, on my whole entire life, and that I think will be the sweetest revenge. Id love to do all of those more tangible and cliché things and I’ll always fantasize about egging your house, but I think instead of doing all of those things I’m going to not do anything at all to you and I hope that’s worse.