I woke up this morning in a daze. Did last night happen? Did I dream it? I looked around the room, and everything felt the same, yet somehow different. The air felt thick. The room, a sort of uneasy quiet that, even in my isolation, I felt uncomfortable disturbing.
I opened my phone to see what I’d feared. Blue. So much blue that all the skies, and all the oceans, and all the fresh eyes of newborn babes would envy the piercing sapphire vision that illuminated my rose gold iPhone 7 screen for all of eternity. The blue jay, and the blue bonnett, and the Russian blue cat, the peacock, the heron, and the blue whale, would all bind together, and bow their heads in worship of me, their new high priestess. They would honor the scripture I’d created together as their holy words, while the choir sang “Da ba dee, da ba die. Da ba deeeee, da ba die.” Because like that little man who lived in a blue world, all day and all night, everything I saw was just blue, like me, inside and outside.
Scrolling through quickly, I caught mere glimpses of the hybrid masterpiece/abomination I saw before me:
“You can do whatever you want. I’m not your girlfriend.”
“Fucking Instagram skanks.”
“First of all.”
“I don’t know her but her personality literally seems insufferable. Hypothetically.”
“I fucking ask nothing of you and I don’t think that’s too much to ask.”
“It doesn’t even fucking matter.”
It went on for five pages. I had sent five pages of text in a single message to someone who wasn’t even my boyfriend. And then followed that up with six more texts before waiting for a response. I hit send, then hopped on a plane, fully knowing I’d just ended a life, but unsure if it had been a violent murder or a tragic suicide.
I’d love to explain what was going through my mind as I wrote out my message, but I’m not sure I can articulate the sort of blind rage it takes to fervently craft such a specific body of work, paying particular attention to every inch of it from the deliberate digs down to the subtle nuances expressed through punctuation, while at the same time, hardly feeling fully present for the inception of your heart’s brainchild at all. A better woman might have let the verbal poison escape her body through her fingertips, and let it die in the Notes section of her phone, like it was a grocery list, or a reminder to call her mom, or a list of baby names.
But I was not a better woman. Not last night. Before I gave myself time to think about it — before I’d sent it to my group text, knowing they might stop me — I hit send, put my shit on Airplane mode, and let the universe deal with what I’d done. And my words will forever be immortalized on the iPhone screen that sits before me, and one that lives at my 11pm “frequent location” across town.
Of course, I was left to deal with the chaos I’d created. The #PrayForTaylor (the victim) movement has been started on social media, and the proceeds will go to buying me an engagement ring, probably, because if you don’t break up with me after that, logically, I have to assume that means you’re going to marry me. And while I can’t recommend anyone follow in my footsteps — the fallout has been difficult, and the damage control insurmountable — I must shamefully admit, I don’t regret it either. Like a phoenix, I have risen from the ashes. My relationship is forever changed — neither better, nor worse, but markedly different for having survived this. I’m different for having survived it. I’m not quite sure what I’ve learned, or even who I am, any more, but I do know one thing: ain’t nobody gonna like some skank’s Instagram selfie again..