Past Lovers (a short story)

When I am with him and we hear a song about heartbreak, I sit and grit my teeth and hope that he is not wallowing in her.  And then, I sulk about the fact that I have no past lovers to wallow in when a sappy song starts to play.  I am angry with myself, and I am angry with the world of boys, because I had never chosen them and they had never chosen me.  I am angry with my teenage self for wallowing in my own self righteous feminist rebellion instead of past lovers like I ought to be doing right now, here in the car, while “Ode to Divorce” by Regina Spektor is playing, instead of wallowing in someone else’s past lover.  This past lover is none of my business.  I should have my own past lovers to be worrying about.  But I do not.  I only have wispy memories of boys that slightly intrigued me, only to strongly disgust me a few weeks later, in one way or another, be it misuse of grammar, or an overly passionate demeanor.

    Of course, there have been those immense and immature crushes whose rejections of my advances had kept me confined to my bed, weeping.
    But those are not real relationships with sex, and credit card debt, and body odor, and finally sharing a bed.  Those do not count.
    I sit in the car becoming increasingly angry, not at myself anymore, but at the whole world for having so many god damned relationships.  I am angry at every musician for their absolute ease in falling in and out of love.  How dare they barrage their rich and fulfilling love lives at me through lyrics, melody, and rhythm?  Who do they think they are, to be upset over a lose love, when there are people like me starving of any love to begin with? It is selfish.
    I am going to write a song, about the certain melancholy of not having a past lover to wallow in.  Then, all those past lover fuckers will have to wallow about how they cannot wallow with me and my sans past lover brigade, because we are wallowing alright.  We are the biggest wallowers you have ever seen, and we blow you past lover wallowers right out of the water.  You people, you past lover people, are like people complaining about how they cannot get a heart transplant, while we are the poor ones born sans hearts.  How could you ever appreciate this perfect new heart when you will always wallow in your old one?

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