Ex boyfriends

I'm not sure why, but in the weeks surrounding my thirtieth birthday, all these exboyfriends and exlovers started showing up. Via Facebook or via front door, five am, drunk and stoned, with a pock-marked, sex-starved Mexican man in tow, whatever.

They're reminding me what a violent and bloody decade my 20s have been as far as love is concerned. Looking back over my shoulder, sometimes all I see are the broken bodies and severed limbs of me and my lovers.

But I might just be thinking too negatively about this. Maybe I'm just at this point where I don't want them standing on 26th and shouting up at my window.

They're fatter. I'm fatter. They care for a bit. Or they don't. Or they are turnip-thin and sporting a moustache. Or they're delivering pizzas again. Or they are traveling from England to Duluth for mysterious reasons. Or they are literally knocking on my door at five am, stinking of pot and tequila, their pants already down around their ankles, a swarthy pock-marked Mexican man in tow.

I wish they would stop it. I wish I would stop looking them up.