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  • I'm like Nancy Fucking Drew lately...hunting for clues in whatever relics I can find related to the relationship that blew up in my face just in time for Christmas. Lucky for Nancy, she didn't know the joys of retracing your steps via text message, because this kind of detective work is not nearly as gratifying. Why, oh why, do I torture myself so?

    I suppose I believe if I just read them again, with eyes stripped clean of my rose-colored romanticism (...or maybe scroll back further....further...?) I'll be able to pinpoint the moment it either disappeared or became utter bullshit. Either would satisfy my urge to look, I hope. I treat them like little cave paintings--leftovers from a relationship that has been obliterated at the hands of man I thought truly incapable of surprises--I hunt for answers. I squint and sniff around for the subtleties I was too much of a dumb ass to detect the first time.

    I find this one--sent circa one week before the surprise--and it does not seem subtle.

    Inquiring minds want to know: Where does one hide a love that big in such record time? (And manage to dispose of all trace evidence, too. Damn. You are a much better criminal than I ever expected.) Or, was that diagram just drawn to scale?
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