One of the gifts that keeps on giving after you’ve been chumped are triggers. Now, I know the word “trigger” has become freighted lately as the buzzword of snowflakes everywhere. But as anyone who’s ever discovered a knife in their back knows, betrayal reverberates. Things that used to be ordinary — Valentines, phone chargers, roses — become sources of nausea, anxiety, and panicky dread.
It’s been eons since I was in a sucktacular marriage to a cheater, but certain things still irrationally carry bad associations: Pittsburgh, the entire state of West Virginia, bluegrass music, and BMW motorcycles. I’d like to not hate Pittsburgh on principle, but if that ick factor doesn’t go away, I’ll live. Whoever you are, if you drive a BMW motorcycle, you are a douchebag. But some things I refuse to cede to that One Lousy Blip in My Life’s Story. Paris? Fuck you, neural networks, we are rewiring for Paris.
(You can read about how I took Paris back last year here.)
Do you have a Super Fund clean-up site of cheater places? What’s on your take back list?