I'll make this brief. But following my recent meltdown a few interesting developments have surfaced. And I figured, why stop there? Let's explore this self-loathing. Let's see where it takes us.
Sooo... The writer who fawned over the 24-year-old Parisian ingénue in Bazaar? The one who is flown around the world to interview society's elite? The one whose career I wish I had? Yeah, that guy. He just put this out into the world: "My #polo dates are having a disagreement: Tom Guinness says Nacho is his real name, and @ByrdieBell thinks its short for something. Anyone?"
If I have to explain why I'm upset, then you don't deserve to know. However, I'm thrilled the mastheads of Vogue, Harper's Bazaar, V and Interview (FOR FUCK'S SAKE!) call him their own. He can make The New York Times best-sellers list, and I can barely afford to feed my dog? Right.
The ex, the love, the one?
Thanks to the miracles of the internet and the demise of our ability to escape people (I swear to God, Facebook, one day I will ruin you), I found out on Friday he's on a serene tropical vacation. With the girl he was fucking on the side.
The one he took to the New Year's Eve party this year -- before texting me at 10 am the next morning to tell me how much he loves me. The one I thought could only be a meaningless fling, indiscretion, mistake. The reason I cut him out of my life, hoping he would realize how utterly beneath him she was.
Nope, she's the one who after only six months gets to travel halfway across the Pacific with him. Not the one who nurtured and edified him for three years. Not the one who was kept in the dark on a string and pulled out whenever his ego needed stroking. No, no, no. The one who I'm 99 percent sure is tittering off which sunless tanning cream is her, like, omg, fave. She's the one he chose.
**End note: Thank you to the few who have encouraged my need to vent and share. I don't feel less of an asshole, but I do feel relieved.**