Dear Potty Mouth,
Today is your birthday and I am not sure why I remember that but I do and that means that I either still care or I’m just amazing with dates. I’m pretty sure it’s the latter.
I won’t be texting you because your number has long been deleted from my phone. Truth told I could probably text you from memory. I committed it to memory back when we were a thing and now that we’re not a thing the ten digits remain alongside my dead grandmother’s number.
And work’s number. I know work’s number by heart.
The primary reason I won't be texting you is because you don't want that. I am sure the last thing you want on your birthday is a text message from the man that did you bogus AF.
And for the record, I was bogus AF. But you already know that.
I am convince you don't miss me. And I don’t miss you. I don’t think about you regularly. There are a couple of times that you cross my mind. I think about you when I see something in the apartment that you broke that still needs fixing. I think about you when junk mail comes to the house with your name on it. I think about you whenever I find yet another olive oil bottle in the cupboard. You bought a lot of olive oil. It’ll probably take me another two years to use it all.
And of course, there are the moments when someone who doesn’t know that you left asks about you. I think about you then.
And sometimes, when all is quiet and my mind is clear, I miss your laugh. It is really big and really loud and it makes the reason for it that much more funny.
Then I remember the mouth from which that laugh escapes and the feeling passes. I hate your mouth.
So, I won't be contacting you to tell you that I remembered your birthday but like, I remembered your birthday.
Happy Birthday. I hope you are wiser and happier and like forty-three steps closer to forgetting about me.