I don’t consider myself afraid of commitment. I prefer to think of commitment as afraid of me. Even if it has been eight years since someone used the word ‘girlfriend’ to describe me, so what? That has nothing to do with me. I have plenty of experience with commitment. For example:
-I committed to every season of Pretty Little Liars. Okay, full disclosure. It took me some extra years because I didn’t have cable or Netflix for a while (I mean, who wants to commit to those types of contracts/monthly payments?). But still. I watched it in its entirety. Eventually.
-I committed to being an Oreo expert. There was a time when I could tell you the seasonal Oreo flavor two seasons in advance. Of course, Oreos aren’t keto friendly and I really want abs for my thirtieth birthday. So, that’s over. But, at one point, we were exclusive.
-I committed to buying a house. If a thirty-year contract with a bank doesn’t scream, “COMMITMENT”, get the fuck outta here. Because it does.
But, seriously. I know commitment. I actually just ended my longest committed relationship. A 21-year relationship to be exact. Now, twenty-one years is a long time. It’s over half my life. Possibly even the majority of my life. I don’t know. I’m not a mathematician. All I know is it was love at first sight and ‘at first sight’ happened in 1997. Sure, over the years plenty of other guys tried to break in on the scene. There were groups of competition. But him and I were perfect together. He was the only guy that was tearin up my heart. I just knew it’s gonna be me and him forever. He was going to kiss me at midnight every NYE until the end of time. I was the girl who has everything. I was that girl. His little señorita.
Now, I’m sure you’re wondering why I would choose to say bye, bye, bye to such a loving, long-lasting relationship. I mean, just look at us in our most recent photos together:
Cute, right? Well it was. Until this selfish motherfucker broke my heart [and the heart of every other grown-ass-teeny-bopping woman] on Sunday. He had one chance to repay me for my decades of love and loyalty, and he blew it. He done fucked up.
Justin, HOW THE FUCK ARE YOU GOING TO PERFORM AT THE SUPER BOWL AND NOT BRING NSYNC ON THE STAGE FOR EVEN A SECOND? YOU HAD ONE CHANCE. ONE CHANCE TO GIVE US DESPERATE THIRTY-SOMETHINGS THE REUNION WE DESERVED. THE REUNION WE NEEDED. THE REUNION THAT COULD HAVE PAUSED THE WORLD, BRINGING PEACE FOR JUST ONE MOMENT.
But, NOOOOO. No reunion. No world peace. No homage. NOTHING. This man was too selfish and too caught up in his “dad-pop” and “Super Bowl selfies” to remember where he came from. What he did wasn’t just dirty. It was filthy.
And for this, I am done. No, no. I am GONE.
And to prove how done I am, I even un-followed him on Instagram. I also deleted his new album from my downloaded music. I’m pretty sure that’s how millennials are breaking up these days. So, yeah. We are officially broken up.
Actual photo of him breaking my heart [aka the moment I realized the NSYNC reunion was NOT happening]:
with love, butter, and breakups,
bree.
[p.s.- I obviously know I wasn’t really dating Justin Timberlake. I’m not that delusional. So please, don’t try to have me committed.]
buttered and blonde 