I’d Rather Stick a Finger Up My Arse (and Swirl It) Than Get Back With My Ex

 Let’s just start with that:

I’d rather stick my finger up my arse and swirl it like I’m mixing cake batter than ever… EVER… get back with that man-child I once called “my person.”

My person? Babe. He was barely a person.

He was like a walking vape cloud with trust issues.

He had the emotional availability of a dead cactus and the maturity of a wet sock.

And I thought he was “deep” because he once said “life’s mad innit” while looking at a lamppost.

You know when you’re so bored you scroll through your camera roll and accidentally find an old selfie with him?

Yeah. I audibly groan.

My phone heats up in shame.

Even the cloud wants to delete it.

Honestly, I’d rather put both legs behind my head, light a Yankee candle, and give myself a prostate exam with a wooden spoon than reply “Hey, how’ve you been?” to that flaccid little memory.

Here’s a short list of things I’d do before I’d go back:

• Tongue kiss a bin chicken (look it up, it’s vile)
• Wax my entire body with Pritt Stick
• Get a tattoo of his star sign on my bumhole
• Tell my boss I’m quitting to become a Love Island influencer
• Eat a lasagne made entirely by toddlers wearing mittens

And STILL.

Still, I’d do all of that and thank the universe for the opportunity before I even considered unblocking that useless plank of a man.

And here’s the part that really sends me…

I knew he was crap.

I knew it deep in my gut, like how you know milk’s off before you sniff it.

But I stayed. I tried. I explained. I forgave. I twisted myself into a human pretzel for someone who wouldn’t bend to pick up his own pants.

He couldn’t communicate unless it was about FIFA or chicken nuggets.

He showed affection like a malfunctioning vending machine.

He gave compliments like:

“You’re not as annoying as other girls.”

Oh cheers babe, let me print that on a T-shirt and die in it.

Final message to Past Me:

Put the phone down.

Drink some water.

Have a poo and cry if needed.

But under NO circumstances do you reply to that WhatsApp.

Even if he comes back with an apology, a playlist, a box of Milk Tray and a handwritten poem.

Even if he says he’s in therapy now.

Even if he says “I’ve changed.”

Tell him this:

“Good for you, babe. I’ve changed too. I’ve got boundaries now. And if I really need to shove something up my arse tonight… trust me, it won’t be your name.”