Dear Diary,

From the moment I woke up at 3:42 on Thursday, I knew the day would be full of trials of my patience. I woke up needing a drink of water, but went back to bed the night after wishing for a lobotomy. 

I moved slowly out of the tangle of blankets that told what my boyfriend and I engaged in last night. I didn’t want to wake Greg up, so I tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen where much needed hydration was waiting. Many counters caused me bruises on my hips from attempting to traverse my new house in the darkness, and it took all my control to refrain from swearing loud enough to wake my spouse. Finally, I made it to the sink, so I looked out toward my pretty little garden that was lit up by twinkly baby fairy lights. Several moments later, as I was drinking my third glass of water, wind picked up and began blowing my trees toward the house. Shriveling leaves scraped against the windows, making awful screeching noises. Being awake at night, alone, gives me chills even with a bright and clear sky, so my imagination was beginning to tick at an undesirable speed. 

Once I made it back into bed, successful in allowing my boyfriend to sleep longer than I could, my hearing would not shut down. In fact, it seemed to magnify what its usual capabilities were. This ensured that my sleep deprived mind had every excuse to continue making up irrational proposals for the reasons behind my continuous receipt of sensory input. By the time the sun began to peek over the east hill outside my bedroom at 7:06 I was irritable. Abandoning all care about whether the man beside me could remain sleeping for the remaining hour before he had to wake up for work, I flipped out of bed and began what I hoped would be a refreshing shower. 

However much I tried to relax before work, I only became more and more worked up about my loss of sleep. It must have been the full moon. My hour passed in a time slot that seemed much, much longer than the numbers on the clocks were telling me. Eventually, I heard the sound of Greg’s alarm clock going off, and he stumbled out of bed onto the floor above me. I tried on a fake smile before greeting him with his coffee (I hate the stuff), but it did not feel right. Instead of wasting time trying to be the perfect girlfriend, I moved to the downstairs bathroom to do my hair for work. That day would be a long day, as I not only had to work late, but I also needed to go to the market before venturing home. I would get back at about seven, meaning a late dinner and an even later bedtime. 

Greg could tell that I was not in the mood to be sweet this morning, mostly because it is impossible to be anything besides a lead balloon when you have been up as long as I have. He gave me a quick kiss as I left, and then I was able to drive to town in what, on any other morning, would be described as peace. That morning, however, it had only felt like oppression. After ten minutes, I opened the window to get some airflow, but I ended up inhaling only the smell of diesel fuel from an obnoxious Dodge in front of me. Coughing and spluttering, I rolled up the window and continued on to work. 

The day sluggishly dragged along as if it wanted me to die slowly. I was assigned four stories as soon as I entered the building, and the workload did not get any easier as the day went on. Also, there was a shooting last night that a coworker had been a victim of, so she was traumatized to the point of no work being done on her part. By the time six o’clock rolled around, I just wanted to go home and sleep. Thankfully the line at the grocery store was short enough that it did not feel like I was hyped up while everyone was calmed down. 

Traffic, however, was not the same way. Several cars blocked my way, and it seemed that I hit every red light possible on the roads home. When I made it to the highway, there was a constant stream of oncoming vehicles spaced out perfectly so that I could not pass the car going twenty under the speed limit. The trip took an extra twenty minutes and I was about ready to go straight to sleep when I got home. I wanted to leave the food on the counter with a note saying that I made Greg an Ikea sandwich. I wanted to just cuddle my boyfriend on my bed while watching a boring movie that was sure to put me to sleep. I wanted to… 

Whose car is that? My head was cocked as I drove into the garage past a blue Ford Focus with a pink moose rack sticker on it. Who puts stickers on cars anyway? Curiosity overpowered my sleepiness as I checked the kitchen for Greg and a Jehovah's witness or girl guide with her mommy. No one was in the kitchen or the living room, and there were no chocolate chip cookies on my table. A noise from upstairs alerted me to where Greg was. It sounded like he knocked something off the bedside table, so I went up to go make sure it wasn’t my grandmother’s jewelry. 

The top stair creaked as I turned to enter my bedroom, and I heard Greg whispering. A higher pitched voice perked my ears and I closed my eyes. God, no. Why? My body disagreed with my mind, then, because my head was in the middle of a breakdown but my hand twisted the doorknob. Next, my eyes betrayed me so I could see how my boyfriend had as well. 

Needless to say, they left in a hurry when I grabbed my Hello Kitty baseball bat and threw his fancy little suits and sweaters out my window like I was going to hit a homerun. And that, dear diary, is how I broke up with a man. I am now a strong, independent, mentally healthy young woman sitting on her couch, eating ice cream… with a lizard.