Last time I wrote about "The Psycho", "The Stepford Girlfriend", and "The Now-BFF" exes.
This is the second part:
THE PUBERTY-DRIVEN FIRST LOVE
GOOD TIMES: The awkward first fluch of foreign hormones (and increasingly familiar boners) is making you believe that you are now a real man. And what do real men do? Put on inexpert moves on the first available girl. She was your first everything--casual grope, sloppy makeout, even chance at third base. Your relationship existed in soirees, dark corners, and backseat of cars.
THEN THE INEVITABLE HAPPENED: College. Glorious, chick-ridden, college--then you were sending her "It's not you, it's me" texts and saying crap like "I need to explore" to her tear-streaked face. You bury a shoebox of her love letters and start making a move on that cute girl in chem lab.
TODAY, SHE EXISTS: As on older, prettier (but chubbier) version of her high-school self (with a new, hyphenated last name), as evidenced by the Facebook photos of her cradling her baby. You wonder what it would've been like had you ended up together, but mostly you remember that she gave you your (and her) very first, slightly uncomfortable blowjob.
THE SO-BAD-IT'S-SO-GOOD GIRL
GOOD TIMES: For every designer drug she made you try, every shot she outnumbered you two-to-one, and ill-informed Saturday-night decision she goaded you into, you have the accompanying memory of patting her back as she vomited into the toilet. She was fun in the way standing on the edge right before a cliff-dive was. Oh, speaking of cliff dive, remember that time you went cliff diving and she called you a pussy--and then pushed you off?
THEN THE INEVITABLE HAPPENED: Your liver pleaded for mercy and you got your shit togetherr. You started coming in to work without hangovers. After some epic, for-old-time's-sake boot-knocking, you bid the embodiment of your roaring 20's goodbye.
TODAY, SHE EXISTS: As the perfect society wife of some corporate bigwig. Her clean hair and guileless smile are prominently featured in her mommy blog, where she displays her kitchen appliances and deluxe-yoga-studio-toned body (both paid for by the corporate bigwig, of course). No one believes you when yo say she once had purple streaks in her hair and wore skirts that barely covered her ass.
THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY
GOOD TIMES: Life was one great rom-com without the sad parts. You were the dashing and not-so-handsome male lead, and she, the manic pixie dream girl with an endearing smile and penchant for crazy sex after a couple of craft beers. Every day you turned into an unrecognizable sap, and your buddies both wanted to hit and be you--your love story was that gosh-darned real.
THEN THE INEVITABLE HAPPENED: All dream girls have dreams of their own. So when she got her scholarhip to a top tier university/gave in to her parents' American dream/met some rich douche who could afford to marry her quicker than you could, you became the tragic figure getting drunk at bars and trying (unsuccessfully) to sleep with other women, only to cry on their shoulders at how much you till loved her.
TODAY, SHE EXISTS: As the impossible standard by which you measure all women. You still nonchalantly (but secretly) stalk your common friends' Instagram accounts because you don't want to follow her, and the day her wedding photos came up, you inexplicably felt the need to drink an entire bottle of rum. And you did. You're over her, right?
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