"Oh Get Over it!" She Use to Say

It was once said that the more a reader knows about the author, the easier it is for them to connect to the article. Maybe that’s why there’s a “about the author” section. So to begin this piece, I’d like to tell you a little about myself. I’m a Scorpio. I'm not a jealous guy though I tend to hold grudges against non–living things like turtle necks because I look so bad in them and in junior high a girl made fun of me in front of the entire homeroom and I had no come back! Oh the horror! And Acura RSX’s, because a drug dealer who stole my girlfriend 4 years ago drove one. Now, number 5 on my list of things to extinct is the Acura RSX. I won’t stop until they are all destroyed. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA *Thunder! Lightning! Wolves Howling! * MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

*clears throat *

What else? I really enjoyed the movie District 9, and once when I was young I was told, as if it were some sort of interesting fact, about some sick, twisted people who mailed envelopes to random addresses throughout the U.S. The content of the envelopes are not important but what was hidden under the envelope flap was. According to this elementary school teacher, who basically scarred me for life, these people coated small sharp razors with a deadly virus and hid them in the flap so that when the receivers of the envelopes curled their vulnerable, innocent fingers under the flap, in an attempt to open it, they were cut and infected! Tens or twenties of people died! Ever since that day, I cringe at the thought and sight of anyone opening an envelope with their fingers. So much so that I have to leave the room if I sense this act was to ensue. Lets just say that letter openers became a close friend of mine.

I would tell you more but right this instant I’m having a bittersweet déjà vu from the driver side of my truck. Today is the last commitment that her and I have with one another; a mutual friend’s wedding to be exact, and I watch as she walks away from me like she did a month ago; gorgeous as always but less mine now than ever. She wears the yellow dress that we shopped for together; the one that I had hoped she’d wear before our time was up. And here it was, claiming her. Pretty much gloating that it’s more close to her than I’ll ever be again. Another thought that crosses my mine is that out of sheer luck, maybe I would one day meet that dress again. Maybe she’d be doing laundry at the same laundry mat that I was at and I’d see the yellow piece of shit circling in the machine. And maybe just maybe, she would be distracted by a good novel long enough for the dress to be shredded by a Swiss army knife that I so happen to have been carrying with me. Then I’d vanish into the night with my bag of clean clothes. But I digress.

As much as it was similar to that fateful night one month ago, something was different; something felt right. 2 hours ago, still hung over from the night before, I rushed out of my house, carrying an envelope containing a reimbursement cheque that I had been patiently waiting for. Without a second thought I slid my finger under the flap and with one graceful movement, I freed that cheque from the confines of its paper prison. My body went limp when I realized what I had just done.

“God, I’m infected!” I panicked.

I fell to my knees and stared at the hands that now look like those of a war hero’s. Countless times, in an attempt to face this fear, I would force myself to rip closed envelopes, which only resulted in endless crying and embarrassing numbers of voluntary self booked check ups with my doctor in search of that deadly virus. But my doctor said I was fine every time. And because I'm here writing this, I can testify that I'm not infected.

There was no hope, or disappointments for that matter, in my heart as the figure I spent months trying to memorize shrinks into the horizon with that fucking dress that, I swear, is giving me the middle finger in it’s own little non-living way. It’s funny how time can be so harsh to us but when we least expect it, it changes our lives. One minute you’re dying for something or dying because of the absence of something and the next you’re indifferent. There’s no method or guideline to it; there’s just a moment when you move on.

She told me she hated District 9 early on in our relationship. And even after I listed the genius behind the film she, still holding her initial opinion, replied, "Oh get over it!"

I'm over it.

P.S. Yellow dress, I’m still coming for you regardless you mother fucker! You’re number 3 asshole! Number 3!