The Story of The Last Real Ex

This was written in April of this year and because I'm busy working on two papers for the two English classes I'm taking, I just don't have time to write anything new. However, I want to post something cause I'm fly like that. Well, more like the last few people shared some part of their past romatic history and because this entry exists in a journal I hardly update anymore, I decided to copy, do very little editing, and then paste it here. This isn't a very good example of my writing but fuck it. I'm busy, kinda-sorta have a life, and just don't have time for cunts like you right now.

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“Good judgment comes from experience, and often experience comes from bad judgment.”

—Rita Mae Brown, American writer, author, “Bingo,” “High Hearts,” “I am a Woman”

“If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end; if you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth - only soft soap and wishful thinking to begin, and in the end, despair.”
—Clive Staples Lewis, British writer, critic, “Allegory of Love,” “The Chronicles of Narnia”

Once upon a time, there was a tall, scrawny young man named Jared. His skull was rather large and its bony structure was clearly visible beneath the layers of blood, muscle, and skin coverings. With a weak chin that sloped to a straight point, sunken eye sockets, and a rather large mole displayed on his left cheek, Jared was with few prospects of female attention. He was not ugly but his face required a few glances before its attractiveness stood out. The thin red lips stretched below his long narrow nose seemed never meant for kissing; the blond crew cut was never destined for another’s fingers to stroke or tangle in. A short neck connected to broad gaunt shoulders and a lean, muscular upper body, built by too much time spent in jail. By following the pig trail of light colored hair beginning at his belly button, narrow hips would come into view, followed by his loins, which a mass of pubic hair covered. All equipment was rated average and marked by nothing of significance. With lanky legs and slender feet, he was a man over looked by most—however, a small few found Jared interesting.

A vast amount of untruths, fantasies, and mind games were concocted to gain attention—her attention, really. He was master of falsehood and, though he could not keep some stories straight, he knew how to make her his own. Her smarts were his prize, as was her laugh, smile, happiness, and sanity. She was different from the trailer trash bleach blondes Jared was accustom to, and he could not resist her neediness or desire for him. In all honesty, he believed himself the only conniving party and never imagined that she was scheming as well. The innocent face of youthful splendor hid her sick plots to own him, make Jared beg for her company, and control his entire being, just because she could. An eight year difference in age—he 24, she 16—convinced them not to separate, but to continue growing together.

He cheated, they broke up; she broke down, they got back together. She hated him, so they separated; he loved her, so they became a couple once more. So the story goes. He was a puzzle that she sometimes had trouble figuring out and, even with her expertise in game playing, never realized how much experience he had before her. Jared was a professional performer that made her look and feel like an amateur. Constantly fighting, they never knew the peace that couples should. Between the stress of the situation and her authentic concern for him, she caught herself cowering down to him—she became subservient.

In the confusion of it all, Jared landed himself in jail. She stuck by him not because she thought him innocent, but because she felt guilty. The lies that passed through her mouth and into his ears were awful, and possibly added to the strain he felt whenever committing such crimes as fraud and battery. Moreover, he never physically hurt her, so she saw herself in no danger—at first. Then the pushing of her will and prodding of her pride began. She allowed it because she was strong and could hold her own. His meal ticket came by way of her money; and the only communication he had with someone without disgust for him was the daily phone calls to her house, as well as in the countless letters addressed to

Him
In His Holding Cell
Some Place, Florida 32497.

Then, she cracked. There was no chance of a normal life while Jared was a part of it. With no grace or pride, just hatred of herself and of him, she wrote a letter declaring the end. One phone call a few days later changed that decision. He could not live without her and felt extraordinarily angry. She could not handle his attitude and knew that the only way to escape the call was to cave in. With an empty heart and empty words, she agreed not to relinquish their love, to remain his girl.

A week later, as good fortune would have it, Jared broke up with her anyway. A mental breakdown the month after sent her seeking psychological help by way of an antidepressant and therapy. She began changing, maturing, and setting priorities in their correct order. More than a year later, she is an entirely different person. Love is in her life—real love, and the new man is more than worth experiencing the wrath of the old. As for Jared, he is currently located at the main Central Florida Retaining Center for being a naughty boy.

This is the part where I say “…and they all lived happily ever after.”

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I am very much aware that the above was written in a shoddy manner, but I needed to get that out. That is all.