Breakups are messy. But mine?
Mine involved cold cuts and public humiliation.
After finally kicking my ex, Alex, out of my life, I thought I was free. But a week later, he showed up at my doorstep holding a grocery bag like some kind of sad, meat-based peace offering.
Inside: a dozen eggs and half a pound of bologna.
No note. No apology. Just a weird, greasy silence and a mumbled, “Thought you could use this.”
I took it, mostly just to shut the door without a fight.
Later, I tossed the bologna and made an omelet. End of story, right?
Wrong.
A few hours later, I ran into a mutual friend at a coffee shop. We chatted briefly, and then he said something that made my stomach turn:
“I saw Alex today. He was bragging that he bought you groceries because you were struggling to eat without him.”
I blinked.
“He what?”
Apparently, in Alex’s warped little fantasy world, those $6 worth of breakfast basics were proof that I couldn’t survive without him. He’d even told people,
“She looked so thankful—like I saved her or something.”
Let me be clear: I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t need help. And I definitely wasn’t rescued by a man whose idea of generosity was discount deli meat.
So, I texted him just three words:
“Keep the bologna.”