I looked up "Hipster Stool Photography" on Google to try and find a picture I liked for this post.

I stalk a lot of people on Facebook just to stop myself from clicking on his little picture. I guess the biggest improvement is that I now write about him and not to him. I don't feel that close to him anymore.

I don't know, maybe this has past its expiration date. Maybe my heart has gone sour because most people would be over it by now. I haven't talked to anyone but my basement for a long time because everyone who's "there for me" is tired of hearing it. I guess I can't blame them.

Let me put it this way: I'm over him. I really am. I'm over the romance of it all. The mystery and excitement of what might come. It's gone. It's past. And that's okay. But, I'm not over the hole it left in my heart. I'm not over those whisperings in my brain saying that I'm damaged. I'm unsure. I'm just not quite up to anyone's expectations. He's left me with 2000 miles and the feeling that I can never quite measure up.

Now, I don't blame him. This isn't a post to hurt him with my words. I'm over the angst. I'm over him. This post is allowing me to breathe.

I set my life up like a stool. Three legs. Three people. Two shes and a he. I was the seat. Everyone knew something, but no one knew everything. I don't think I even knew everything.

He was the first to go. I wouldn't classify him as a clean break, but he's the tidier of the two. I think a stool can still function with only two legs. Just be careful where you put your weight.

She broke down second. The hardest thing about it all is that she still tries to stick on. I was trying to help her in the beginning. I jammed that leg into the stub over and over and finally had to stop when the splinters hurt too much. I don't think she sees that her jagged edges are beyond repair. I wish I could tell you exactly what happened with her. I'm still trying to make sense of it. She could talk your ear off, though. Funnily enough, it just never seems to add up the way they taught us in algebra.

Thank God I still have her. The second her. Things might not be as perfect as they appear, but you'll never hear me complaining, cause she's still here. And I wouldn't trade the truth of that for all the Instagram pictures of the blondes and their mission calls.

The problem is you can't put any weight on a one legged stool.
And now here I am.
Here I am.