Breaking Up With Sunday Funday Jul. 24, 2011 By Stephanie Georgopulos
Stephanie Georgopulos is/was/forever will be from Brooklyn, NY. Read more »
My dearest,
Hi. I know you’re catching on, and reasonably so. I’ve only been saying it all week. I’ve been whispering it to our mutual friends. That I didn’t want to see you, that I’d avoid you at all costs. I know you can tell I’m growing distant, and it’s not fair to you – not with our history. I’m just going to say it. I can’t keep pretending that this is a healthy relationship. In fact, it might be killing me – and I mean that quite literally. My doctor has expressed some concerns. What I’m saying is… I need some space from you. We need to take a break.
Things started out great, you know? You know. I’d wake up from another unspeakably bizarre Saturday night and there you were – awaiting me with open arms. We’d set out into the day together, get brunch – a rossini here, a bellini there… a few mimosas at that cheap place on Grand Street… a bottle of champagne at someone’s house… fried chicken, o’, the fried chicken. Was there anything we couldn’t do together, Sunday Funday? In my heart, I’m sure – we could do it all.
But you went and changed on me. Things got… dark. Remember Sunday Bloody Sunday? Your cheeks are probably full of color, hearing me refer to you like that. I hate calling you that name, but you earned it. You plied me with picklebacks that day. Hours later, I found myself in a school bus buying illegal substances from a man named Fire. I consorted with a man named Fire under your watch. Even that, I could’ve dealt with. But when I came home and ate the assorted Chinese food leftovers that my roommates left out in the living room? The scraps? That’s when you crossed the line.
Not to mention, my mom doesn’t like you. And she likes everyone. I started lying to her when she’d call, pretending that we weren’t together, Sundays used to be her day, you know? She likes to call and shoot the shit on Sundays; it’s a mom thing. But every time I answered the phone, pretending to be at the park reading a book, she knew. She could hear it in my voice. “Steph, are you… but… it’s Sunday! I thought… won’t you outgrow this soon? This is toxic,” she’d say. YOU. YOU ARE TOXIC.
I remember the good times, babe. Don’t think I don’t. I remember the concerts we went to last summer, I remember the lawn chairs and the taco trucks and the Moscow Mules. I remember drunkenly buying books from street vendors, and the time I bought that Beatles album with the typo on the cover? That was so exciting! We ran to the ATM, threw our surcharge cautions to the wind. “Fuck ATM fees, THE BEATLES!” We said. Never mind the fact that I don’t own a record player, right?
That’s your problem. You’re too fun and fancy-free. It’s all shits and giggles until Monday, when I have to get up and go to work and you’re nowhere to be found. Not so ride-or-die come Monday morning, are you? You just leave me to fend for myself, sometimes with an unbearable headache. I know you care about me… at least I think you do, but you kind of only come around once a week, make me spend unseemly amounts of money, and embarrass me in front of my friends. This relationship is not conducive to who I like to pretend to be – a mature adult with morals.
You know I love you. Sometimes, I live my entire week just to see you. My heart pitter-patters when I imagine what you have in store for me. But I can’t do this anymore. You have every right to be upset with me. I want you to know that I never led you on. I was with you because I chose to be, it was what I wanted. Maybe someday we can reevaluate our relationship, work on things. Become a better Us. I’d totally be down for a kind of No Strings Attached scenario as well. Just in the meantime.
We can still like, mess around occasionally, right?
I’ll like you forever; I’ll love you for always,
Steph
