I admit it. I’m so sentimental it makes even me think I’m a tool. That said, I’m moving the hell on. I’ve put the bitch in the box. I’ve rounded up every photo, email, and reference of any kind having to do with my nutjob ex, and put it into an encrypted disk image. I haven’t deleted the disk image yet, but I’m pretty sure that’s going to happen soon.After a dozen breakup attempts, two real breakups, one weird attempt at a friendship and one “I can’t talk to you because I’m trying to build a relationship with the guy I dated immediately after you, and you always cast a shadow over that relationship the first time.” I’m done. Finished. I’m done trying to hold on to good memories. I’m done trying not to think of her as a vicious, life-sucking, insane bitch. I’m done hoping we can someday have some sort of a functional adult friendship. Fuck that crazy bitch. She’s in the box.

And pretty soon I’m going to throw the box into the dark abyss where even memory dies.