He has officially moved on. Well, not exactly officially, and I'm not sure one could really call it "moving on", but my beloved ex-boyfriend who I dumped, then mourned, is sleeping with a woman who is not me. I have business to do with both of these people, my ex-boyfriend and the new woman, and see them both on a regular basis. She is the type of woman who befriends and seduces everyone: men, women, goats, whomever. She is not particularly discriminate. Over the last several months we became closer acquaintances, and I made the grievous error of sharing too much personal information with her. She is the type of woman who will empathize with a man out of the kindness of her heart, then hops into his bed. Now I am fairly certain that she has hopped into my former beloved's bed; my woman's intuition screams it loud.
I suppose I knew this was inevitable, that eventually he would move on (in my own snail-paced way, I have), but witnessing it is one of the unusually cruel experiences of life. Hypocritically, I want to rip her head off, then tear off all of his limbs for good measure. The irony of this is that I have been dating...real old-fashioned dating, and not just screwing around for lonely, alcohol-induced sport. I know I am being unreasonable, but the night all these revelations really came to a head for me, I laid in bed and wept. The mental images, thinking of them being intimate, laughing, waking up in the same room made me want to light someone's, ANYONE'S, roof on fire. I sobbed and I heaved until I had nothing left, then nodded off to sleep. I woke up the next day, still disgusted by what I was sure was happening, but peaceful. My burning desire for arson having subsided, I felt foolish and tired of missing someone I rejected.
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