Bristol's a lucky girl

I guess. I mean, she got a second chance with her guy right? Seems that whole "how to trap a man" thing really worked out well for her. I apparently hung out with the wrong crowd in high school. Getting pregnant to get a diamond ring wasn't part of our future plans. But If I had known then, what I know now? Maybe it would have been better time spent --chatting about that--instead of what to wear to grad night.

I tend to pick men that don't want second chances. Ever. And booty calls don't count as second chances, BTW. So what does this mean? Was the first time with me just soooo bad, that nothing's gonna bring that sucka back? Or am I picking closed-minded poopy-heads who aren't open enough to look at things from a different perspective? Learn how to do and think differently. And most importantly--Forgive?

Maybe we've just become a society of "get it right the first time or you're out" types? We're too afraid to

try, re-try and try again? In this case, maybe all that christian crap Mama Sarah dumped on her pregger teen paid off to some degree? After going on national television and basically bashing her new son-in-law to be, Levi returning the favor and Bristol on the "don't do as I did" high school virginity tour-- they've all said "I forgive you and want you back!" Now that's American. Just didn't work for me. (although I didn't bash him on national TV...yet.)

Now I know I'm making light of an insanely silly half-baked Alaskans' familial mess...but I actually said it this morning as I heard it on the news. "Wow even Bristol gets a second chance." So apparently--I'm still waiting for mine. But why? The dude has made it perfectly clear--aside from the beer *booty calls--that this is NOT going to happen. Which is why I've decided to quit my McDonald's job and pull up stakes. I realized today after a recent disasterous late night call from P (phone call not the * call) that I need to remove myself from the "land of my dreams" (yes Sacramento) so I can fully move on and heal. I've been doing a silly job I hate, to pay the bills sure, but mostly to hang on to any shred of hope that a second chance would come my way. Sad, isn't it?

And so with that--it's time to talk about the Box. Not because I told you I would, but because I feel it's time to finally get rid of it too. The Box--with a capital B--holds all the mementos from my Sacramemento relationship with Mr. PP. (In case you haven't gone back to the blogginning--"Mr. PP" is what my little niece called my ex when he dumped me. It sorta fits. She also said my new boyfriend will be called "Mr. X"--so stay tuned for when I meet my top-secret lover!)

About a year after we broke up--I decided it was time to stop finding things that reminded me of him shoved in drawers and closets around my house. So I boxed them up. I bought one of those Tupperware type boxes--and tossed in everything. It's basically a relationship in a box. A boy in a plastic bubble. Cards, letters, pictures, frames he made me, an Xmas light bulb from the time we put up lights, my Charlie Brown books and the cell phone box he wrapped my emeralds in. I was so excited to get a "cell phone"--I kept the box. For a while--the emeralds also lived in The Box--but we got back together. They are, after all, my birthstone. (Justification)

I filled it and shoved the entire thing under my bed--and really haven't looked at it much. Not too much anyway. I occasionally pull it out on holidays or as you may have recently read-- my birthday. But now, it's reached critical mass. I don't quite know what to do with it. It's contents are too precious to throw out. Everyone says "burn the letters you'll feel better." I can't. I don't want to. But I don't want to look at that stuff anymore either. And as hard as I try to ignore it--my heart knows its there, under the bed. It's gotta be bringing bad mojo to that area don't you think? Some kind of plastic voodoo that won't allow the bed to reach it's full potential until his remains have left the building? (okay that's a tad dramatic, but sure fun to write.)

I've thought about sending him the Box. Let him dispose of it all. That way I don't have to. But then he'll think it's some form of retaliation. And I"m not about punishment or retaliation. Even though I guess that's what I'm experiencing now--punishment for hanging on and trying to be friends, waiting for a second chance.

If I'm facing a move soon--I refuse to let that box come with me. I need a clean start, with only the memories in my mind. Besides, Why keep that crap? It's not like I'm going to have a daughter someday to tell stories about "the letters from the man who dumped me just in time for me to meet your father!" But maybe for my niece. She loved the guy too--but she's smart enough to crown him Mr. PP when he dumped me. In fact, even though her birthday's not in May--I'm thinking the emeralds would look really nice on  her. Lord knows I won't wear them. I'm gonna have to buy my own sparkles. You hear that Bristol? There are other ways to get a big diamond ring. And a magazine spread for that matter.

*they were always beer booty calls, b/c he could never just come out and ask for it. Instead, he'd call to see if he could stop and have a beer after band practice. Maybe Levi and Bristol have matured? I on the other hand, have regressed.