When I spoke to my ex on the phone, five weeks after the pizza of doom, I cried a lot. I tried to express to him how unbearable the pain was. How deep the shame, the disappointment, the loss.
He kept telling me I would be OK. Condescending asshole.
And when he did, I cried even more and said, “I know I’ll be OK, I just wish I could wake up in March.”
This was back in September. After the break up at the start of August.
It never crossed my frazzled little mind that by March I would still be crying every day. That things would lift, but still feel ohsolow. That I would still think about him all the time.
No, I figured by March I would be fine.
It’s the last day of March. I don’t feel fine.
But tomorrow is April.
April is my month. April is springtime. April is lighter evenings and sunnier mornings and smells of grass that’s freshly cut. April is the run up to May. And in May I go on holiday. April is my birthday. April is Easter and visiting friends in Edinburgh.
And when my ex wakes up in the month of April, I know he’ll have to think about me – seeing as it’s my name and all.
I hope it hurts.
Pizza of Doom 
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