Jenny lay on her back with that gaping, hollow feeling running straight through her. As if her entire soul had been sucked out, slapped around, and thrown on the ground next to her, waiting to be dusted off and put back into place. But she just didn’t have the energy for that — one of the cruel ironies of having one’s soul yanked out makes it tough to then have the emotional stamina to get yourself together.
Plus, the sidewalk was surprisingly comfortable.
Frank had heard her say a million times: “Don’t you dare use the kids against me!” And now here he is, out on the curb, with the kids, kicked out of their own home for the last time. He didn’t know where they’d go. He didn’t know where they’d stay. They didn’t know anyone in this small town but they’d get by. They always did. As long as they stayed together.
Then Frank remembered that he gotten drunk and fallen asleep watching Lifetime again. And that he didn’t have any kids.
Johnny knew he’d had a lot to drink the night before - which was understandable given that his girlfriend of ten years kicked him not just to the curb (people might see) but behind the apartment building against the dumpster - but didn’t realize just how much until he woke up with a puddle of urine underneath him and running down his leg. He tried to convince himself that a dog came and cocked its leg on him while he was passed out.
But deep down he knew that, shamefully, just wasn’t the case.
What are the odds? Both of them getting kicked out of their respective homes on the same dark night on the same busy street in the same soulless town. Actually, probably pretty good all things considered. Isn’t a baby born like every 23 seconds in the world or something? And someone dies right around the same amount of time? The numbers might be off but the idea is the same: your unique pain or pleasure ain’t all that unique, pal. So, it could be worse: they could be dead.
And at least they have each other.
Nights were never longer than when he was stuck outside in the freezing cold, locked out of what used to be his apartment until several hours earlier when his girlfriend found out about the small fact that he had re-activated his Match.com account and had been replying to potential dates as if he were single.
In his defense, he never actually went beyond cybering.
His things still strewn about the sidewalk, it’s evident that last night’s breakup bender did not go well. And that’s an understatement. Not even their mutual friend coming over to act as impartial mediator could save this one from becoming “the one.” The last straw. El finito. The end of ends. The you ain’t gettin’ any mo’ of this *gesturing to her hot body* type of bruhaha.
At least it’s January in LA and it’s nearly 80 degrees so he can get some sun on his pasty skin while he’s wallowing in his heartbroken misery.
Leave it to the holidays to include your 11-year relationship as one of the things that you throw out to the curb - along with the broken air hockey table - as you cleanse yourself of 2011 and prepare for the new year. 11 years of love, loyalty, commitment, fidelity (for the most part), down the drain.
Now he’s stuck here next to the unwanted trash, his heart competing with the perforated face of the game table for the honor of most tragically punctured item here on the lawn.
Fuck the holidays. Fuck Christmas. Fuck Festivus. Fuck Hanukkah. Fuck the whole holiday spirit, whatever the fuck that is. Fuck celebrating holiness by spending money. Fuck my girlfriend who kicked me out after our “holiday” party, which consisted of only her annoying friends playing lame-ass games involving shitty little presents that could only be interpreted as a total perversion of the holiday itself, and told me we were through. Who even says that? “We’re through?” What the fuck? So here I sit, out on the curb, with only a banana and a crushed, half-empty tallboy to my name.
Merry fucking Kwanzaa everyone.