The land of the exes

In my head, when you are done with a guy (truly done--not that done where you still call or text or sext or touch) they disappear into the No-Man's-Land I imagine to be the land of the exes.  In this land there are torn pages of King magazine covering the ground, the bathrooms have no seat cover so they know what its like to fall in and/or squat, and the basketball courts have no balls.  I imagine that there is nothing but McDonald's in this land, and everything is super-sized, and the drinks come with no ice.  The traditional attire for the natives is basketball shorts with white t-shirts but they are forced to pair them with Reebok classics. Whenever an ex finds a way to get in contact with me, usually in the midst of something wonderful happening in my life, I am reminded of the rapid mail system in the Land of the Exes that alerts them when its time to swoop in an shit all over things.  I truly genuinely forget about them until said time when they reappear and I am forced to remember their existence as a living breathing being on this earth. The earth with all the living breathing women who have banished them.  It is kind of like a glitch in the matrix, "Did you move, or die or something?" How did you even get here, and why did you not delete my number out of your phone?

Alas, they did not.  And its not even that I wish they did. I just could do without my past creeping up into my present, especially without an invitation.  Especially especially without them telling me that their lives are miserable without me but they know they don't stand a snowballs chance in hell of getting me back.

I'm not bitter, I'm just sayin.