FREAKSCOMEOUTATNIGHT

i wish i knew a lot of things.

i wish i knew how to speak french (although, recently, a very delightful person taught me how to properly fake a french accent. not the same thing, but pretty close).

i wish i knew how to cook beef bourguignon, just like julia child, except faster.

i wish i knew how to be myself without all the profanity.

i wish i knew why the fuck old, douche bag boyfriends feel fucking compelled to fucking call me every fucking january (so much for not cussing).

honestly now, how predictable!

so far--AND IT'S ONLY THE 9th--i've received:

a text message: "hey, long time. hope you are well. happy new year. miss you."
what i'd reply, if i could be bothered: not long enough.

a voicemail: "lana, it's mr. douche (not this person's real name). not really sure why i'm calling you, except that i've been thinking a lot about us. blah, blah, blah, you probably don't want to speak with me . . . blah, blah, blah."
what i'd reply, if i could be bothered: hey, douchie, i'm not really sure why you're calling me, either. i haven't been thinking about you, at all. allow me to clear up any doubts you may have: i don't want to speak with you.

an email: "it's the new year and i'm reflecting on all the great times we had. i would love to make more."
what i'd reply, if i could be bothered: it's the new year and i'm reflecting on all the great times i'm about to have . . . without you.

1) some audacity to think i'm still available!!! (ok, so, i'm STILL available, but that's besides the point!)

2) we broke up for a reason, guys! (actually, A LOT of reasons.) and while i may be a glutton for some sorts of punishment, y'all are way beyond my scope of enjoyment.