Age old, eating away at my SOUL

While perusing my email today and attempting to clean out the 1500 or so emails that I've somehow found reason not to delete, I came across emails from my ex that once again cause my palms to sweat, my eyes to water, my throat to parch. Old flame? You might say that. More like splinter in my rear end. Splinter in my rear caused my the demolition of the cruise ship I was sunbathing on. The cruise ship I call "romance"... has "death trap" written on the underside of those life preservers.

Thoughts:

Why the HELL do I still think you're beautiful? Aren't you supposed to look ugly when you're an ugly person? YES you ARE."

The sick, ridiculous, frustrating and ultimately soul-killing part about this particular situation is that I still don't think he's an ugly person even though every logical part of my brain points to the fact that I should hate him.

No. I don't.

Not even now......

Nope...still don't.

#@$%@#$^@%^#$%&#$%&

Thoughts:

Why did you send me that goofy picture of you with you're hair perfectly mussed like you just got up from a nap, with your perfectly smoldering yet kind, little boy eyes looking out of the photo and then decide not to speak to me two weeks later?!

To summon The Merovingian, suddenly the reason, the why is not important, it's just the feeling.

It's really I who am the enemy here. It is I who kept the emails just waiting in my inbox like change you stash for a rainy day, purposely overlooked just long enough to be forgotten, but close enough at hand that you can bump into those shiny coins when you least expect it, and bask in the triumph of cashing it in for a desperately-needed caffeine fix. That's what you are, oh picture in my email. You're just today's meager fix as I continue trying to detox my body from the rush of hormones and decades-forward life plans I had to quit cold turkey. I'm just like any other addict, except my drug has a face. My stash-hole in the wall is my mind. Always easy access.