Warning: Messy, kinda depressing, probably NSFW, and always vulgar.

(Apple Music currently playing: “Neu Roses” song by Daniel Caesar)

While many people believe that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone, I’m going to go with: the best way to get over someone is to turn them into literature. And it’s very rare that I choose the classy route so I’m taking full advantage.

I did my due diligence, and after navigating the ‘age gap’ arena via the net, I learned that in the western world, about 8% of heterosexual relationships have around a ten-year age gap or more. That refers to the male being older than the female. Only about 1% of age-gap couples involve the woman being the older one. So, we decided to become an unpopular opinion.

Now, Nick (not Jonas), and I are 9 years and 6 months apart and in any average, square-society, that’s considered messy, hence the warning. OH, and it’s only messy when it’s the female that‘s older than the male, NOT the other way around. Yay for sexism!

Let me start off by saying that I know there are more important things happening right now like climate protests, a national emergency to fund a wall (because tunnels don’t exist), teachers being underpaid, world hunger, a sadistic toupe in the White House sitting on Obama’s glorious butt-heat, and so forth. I’m not completely disillusioned. This blog is here to give you a break from world depression, and divert you to a messy story because reading about someone else’s unsuccessfulness is much more satisfactory than your own… which is why I still read the news. But trust, I KNOW social injustices outweigh my minuscule issues. In fact, when I met Nick, I was actually doing some marketing for a nonprofit organization that spreads awareness about the blood diamond war that had happened in Sierra Leone, the aftermath, and the prosthetic rehabilitation. Over 20,000 men, women, and children were REALLY mutilated during the civil war. That ACTUALLY happened towards the early 2000s. Leonardo DiCaprio, was in fact, preaching when he starred in the Blood Diamond film. And at the time, my job had sent me to different universities and colleges to speak about their programs and so forth.

Moving forward, I was there in the middle of my brutally graphic speech when I noticed teeth…just teeth because Nicks face is made up of 50% teeth. Literally, his face is half smile. But who smiles while hearing about social injustices? I knew immediately that he wasn’t listening to anything I was saying. The look on his face told me he was prowling for a snack and not to prolong the semantics, he shot his shot, rebounded, rebounded, and rebounded again. Finally, I allowed him to give me HIS number instead of him getting mine to get him away. I scurried him along before my supervisor could see and kept it moving. I took it with a grain of salt knowing I wasn’t going to use it. Later, I went on my break to the nearest cafeteria and there he was, making his way back towards me to convince me to actually use his number and text him. He was relentless. I could have said no, but it was a mixture of his confidence and my boredom that said “fuck it”.

A month went by of maybe 20 text exchanges between us. 17 from him, 3 from me. I was going through a breakup, (fake shock), and I gave him the run around because I was too busy being depressed over it.

Well to speed things along, after a few weeks of feeling sorry for myself, I decided to entertain the idea of getting my groove back on with him. I packed my purse with a few Amsterdam Vodka shots, because it’s never easy to start dating again. I met him at BJ’s. He ate and I had a beer. He didn’t know that I was drunk and I didn’t know that he was high. To this day, we’re not really sure what we talked about. We only remember discussing the almost 10-year age difference. Because of this, in my mind, I for sure would never see him again, and in his mind he was ready for me to have his babies. He took me home in his truck and…alright, alright, we made out. I remember this because the windows had fogged heavily! Then the dirty swine had the audacity to try and go further. You know, the old downtown move. The thing DJ Khaled won’t do with his wife, IN HIS TRUCK. I…was…horrified and sped off, leaving my glasses behind!

A month goes by, and my frugal ass met up with him to avoid buying another pair of glasses. Somehow, we ended up at the theaters. We watched “Get Out”, because watching a racially-charged movie is a common second date for an interracial pair to go to. Yes, it turned into a second date and what can I say, we were attached.

The more we spoke, despite the age gap, the more we became fascinated with each other because we shared common goals. Become wealthy, and by retirement, we would build a gate around our two separate houses. He would have his home and I would have mine. We would have a bridge connecting our homes just like Frida Khalo and Diego Rivera houses in Mexico City. We planned to only come out for parties as big as Jay Gatsby’s. We would do our bountiful share of benevolent acts, then isolate ourselves back into our homes. His house would be full of art, and paint. My house would be filled with books and writing materials. We would die happily, with a few kids delivered via surrogate because by the time I want another child, I’m not sure if my body would allow.

Nick laughed at my cruel jokes that most of the time I don’t say out loud because I want to remain an active member of society and not be outcasted like Quasimodo. I won’t go into detail because it’s probably too immature for the mature audience. I guess it was the perfect recipe combined with my Peter Pan Syndrome. We were willing to put up with the laughs from my family when they called me his babysitter. I would put up with Kamille’s father calling him my “boy toy,” and not in a nice way. (Ironically, it was her father who told me that if he and I ended up not marrying, he would find someone much much younger than himself to marry…he had his reasons).

Nick and I ate deliciously. Gluttony at its finest. That was our favorite thing to do. Eat together. Now that we were hanging out sober, every day I gushed over his beauty. It was 500 days of Summer, and I was like; I love the naturally highlighted tips on his little spirally curls. I love his silky lush pink lips that blend perfectly into his face. I love that melanin which would grow much richer when we went deeper into the summer, then was set back to a “high yellow,” (his words, not mine), by mid-September. Every morning it was a million kisses, while feeling the little loopy bridge of his nose with my fingertip. He would make comments about my two-head, and I would laugh at his five-head. When he smiled, I begged him to let me rent a space inside his big round dimple, so I can pitch a hammock in there and relax on it. That’s how deranged I got. It was cute. We were smitten.

After a year, we decided to cohabitate. He began looking to leave his job in Rialto and transfer over to Orange County.

Keep in mind that before we moved in together, I did my fair share of age gap research. I embedded the pros and cons into my memory lobes. We opened a joint bank account, and exactly 3 months later, we saved enough to get our own place.

It was a big sleepover, the kind of sleepover you wished wouldn’t end with your best friend but that could never, ever happen. Unless that best friend becomes your roommate… and I just ruined my analogy. ONWARD.

Too many things happened in the midst of our excitement. We couldn’t get on the same page in terms of chores, finances, work schedules; it was impossible. All age gap-red flags that I read about were taunting me. I ignored them because those things are manageable. It was the disrespect that happened during the arguments that wasn’t tolerable.

The first time I ever saw his angry face was when my freshly squeezed fruit drink spilled in his truck. I was shocked at how comparably reddish/purplish my drink was to his face. (The drink had beets in it). I remember thinking, “oh so that’s how he looks like when he’s angry.” I never forgot that face. His reaction only told me that maybe it was the way he was dealt with growing up.

I think it was also alarming because whenever Kamille spills something, she apologizes and I always say, “don’t worry, I know you didn’t do that on purpose, I know that was an accident.” I never punish her for her mistakes, only for the things that she knows are wrong and does anyway. These were things that the older, mature me, understood. But also, it’s kinda common sense.

So, in the words of Hannibal Lector, “discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me.”

Before we knew it, the million-morning kisses turned into, “please brush your weed breath before kissing me” stage. Which was pointless, because when you’re at the point of smoking weed 3.5 times a day for YEARS, the stench is cemented in the throat indefinitely. He had his plant and I had my micheladas. The things that made us happier in our happiness. The things that comforted us when we were uneasy but more than likely also fueled our downfall. We were sick of hurting each other, and I know for a FACT the neighbors grew weary of our arguments because the cops were called one day during a loud and dangerous argument. As in bright and early on a Friday morning day (Saving for another blog).

Things became what they were. A lot of the time I was sleeping in Kamille’s room, and a lot of the time I was finding reasons to stay at work longer. The good times were persuading us to hang on just a little longer until things could be fixed. The great times became an addiction. But alas, it was time to make a move before things became unmanageable and uncontrollable.

So, it’s been a day and a half since he moved out. Leaving for work last Friday was the absolute worst because I knew when I got home he would be packed and gone. While I got ready and did my makeup, we watched the last bit of “Breaking Bad,” season 4. What would happen to season 5? I know you’re thinking, it’s 2019, who’s watching Breaking Bad anymore? Well we were, BITCH. *Jesse voice*

I’m not anti-love, or anti-cougar. I’m just exhausted of feeling deeply and passionately in love one day, and deeply and passionately annoyed and angry the next.

Perhaps you’re thinking, “well Angie, yeah, relationships are hard, there are ups and downs. You’ll deal with really tough situations throughout your relationship.” I understand this. 60% of the reason I went to therapy was to help my relationship. We wanted to prove everyone wrong who doubted us, and succeed in our relationship. But that’s where we went wrong. We stuck together, no matter the costs. We tolerated the disrespect, name calling, and abuse, merely to prove to people who don’t matter, wrong.

The moral of the story is: Know the difference between dealing with tough and toxic to save a relationship, (regardless of an age gap). Also, know that once the respect is out the door, you’ve already lost, but if you really want it, you’ll seek help to cure that area. Also, don’t let commonalities deceive you. You can very well become a wealthy recluse who joins society a few times a year with your surrogated kids, with or without anyone.

Now that I’m trying to heal, the object of the game is to remain bittersweet. Not bitter, because that just sucks. Not sweet, because that’s a fake and terrible lie. Just simply a combined bittersweet.

Apple Music: “Potholderz” by MF Doom.