“Why do you always have to get the last word in?” my mom asked me, not even trying to hide her disappointment.
“Because I’m always right,” I answered, simply.
“You’re going to make a terrifying lawyer,” she said with a heavy sigh.
“I learned from best. I don’t know. It’s not like I actually care, but I don’t want him to think he can live without consequences. This is still *my* campus,” I said back.
“And because you want everyone’s attention to be on you. Even if you don’t care to give them a second thought,” she said.
“Exactly,” I grinned, “but is that so wrong?”
My mom was right: I’m a complete slave to attention. But not just any attention — the attention that is only reserved for the girls who say what we’re all thinking, who do the things we want to, but are too scared to do. I fucking live for the moments when my friends gasp and giggle, I smile when every time one of them says “you did not just say that!” I wouldn’t say everything I do is to for the thrill of getting all eyes on me, but it always plays a factor. So when my ex brought his new girl to my party, smirking at me as he kissed her, I was left with two options: I could either be the bigger person and turn the other cheek, or be sickly sweet in the name of pettiness. And let’s be real, no one remembers the girl who doesn’t make a scene.
I walked up to them, introduced myself as the only reason they were allowed into this party (laughing that I was only kidding, even though I wasn’t), and oozed feigned hospitality. I even offered shots to his friends who can’t hide the fact they still love me. And as I sauntered away, I heard them already begin to fight.
So why did I do it? Well, because he brought a new girl to my party. This was our first encounter post breakup. Anyone who has ever had their ex hook up with a sister or accidentally on purpose ran into him at the bar is a veteran in post breakup games we all play. Both parties want to look like they’re doing better than the other, and I would be damned if he was going to win.
To ensure my position on top, drastic measures had to be taken. It wasn’t enough that the whole party saw my ex fail to console his new girlfriend who was currently losing her shit over me. I needed to succeed at doing what he came to that party — to show I was the one who had moved on. My perfect opportunity struck when my hot friend walked into the party. The same hot friend my ex had been openly jealous of, and I had convinced him there was nothing to worry about. At the time there wasn’t, but letting him agonize over the possibility was too good to pass up. Besides, what’s the point of being single if you can’t taste the fruit that used to be forbidden?
I literally ran to my target, causing my ex to whip around and stare down our interaction. My best friend saw everything that went down, figured out immediately what I was doing, and giggled. She whispered into my ear that my ex, who was now standing behind me, looked pissed. Perfect. My plan was working. I looked up at my friend and let the games begin.
Pretty soon we started dancing and making out. My ex watched the whole time. After a few more minutes of being the audience to our two person show, he finally headed to the door. His girlfriend followed him but looked rightfully pissed as she did. Game, set and match.
I ran into him a few weeks later and was the same cheerful, sweet “friend” that I had presented myself as during the party. He asked about the friend but I dismissed the question. He prodded again, and I kept my answer vague. Finally, he confessed that he still cared about me. I smiled warmly, hugged him and reassured him I would always love him… as a friend. Then I went home and blocked his number.
I didn’t do it to get him back. I didn’t do it to get over him. I did it for the entertainment. I loved how everyone zeroed in on the drama I was creating. I loved that he was forced to think about me. Most of all, I loved that there was no doubt that I had won. Sure, pettiness has no place in the real world, but in this moment, I’m still in girl world where all fighting is done in subtweets and passive aggression. Call me immature, call me mean, or call me anything. It is all true after all. When I am older I will be different, probably, but for right now I’m a bitch, and you better believe I love it..