I have approached the conclusion the opposite of love is neither loathing nor resentment, but the quietude of indifference.
Recently, the silence of my unemployed booty calls and academically inclined crushes is feeling oppressive.
With crossed legs and an abundance of mascara masquerading the disappointment in my eyes, I wonder how ghosting wholly annihilated young love.
Ghosting is obviously the practice of plucking someone out of every garden of communication, similar to when parents with black-and-white minds chop dandelions out of a toddler’s bouquet without remorse.
The exertion arises from a clear split in power: one individual persists as the realist against a hopeless romantic who is blinded by amethyst goggles, the sensation of toes brushing faux fur comforters and the sheer peace within awkwardness.
“I’m not always a dewy-eyed and moonstruck romantic” is a fairly empowering concept to be reminded of.
My portfolio in the craft includes vanishing unapologetically from the lives of rave virgins who never pronounce Odesza correctly and enjoy American flag bandanas, reminiscing vividly into the time they almost created the perfect March Madness bracket and selling plasma for $2 well drinks every Saturday.
My shatterproof list of deal breakers brutally liquidates men who:
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Post babies and toddlers onto social media as though the excessive procreation of human beings isn’t one of the biggest environmental contaminators on earth
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Shame women who are able to rock brightly colored crocs
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Consume non-dolphin safe tuna
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Elevate the pro-life movement because they believe they properly understand the magic uterus and devoted their entire adolescence to hyper-sexualizing the homeschooled baptists down the roadÂ
These rulings stand with the luminosity of a United States Border Patrol station anticipating the wobbling, intoxicated 19 year-olds aiming to make it out of Canada before 2 a.m.
I when I deleted an aspiring dub fusion DJ off of Snapchat because he didn’t appreciate springtime enough and buttoned up my flannels.Â
It also felt nearly meaningless when I scrubbed out the creases between me and a hazel-eyed dirt bike racer when he said he was falling in love with me over a shared plate of Burger King pancakes. I thankfully numbed any self-condemnation with the realities of knowing him for less than three weeks, his chronic beachside littering and tragic incapacity of using the proper “to,” “too” and “two.”
Ghosting was also a sweet escape from a self-celebrating dude attempting to connect Scooby Doo characters with forgotten Greek philosophers and who loathed disco music; the most horrendous red flag was when he asked why I cared so much about my pet lizard.
Although I’ve ghosted, I can’t help but feel immediately downcasted when I branch out beyond my preferences like olive vines dangling from a balcony and am greeted by wasted time and oxidized pride.
I once pushed my standards into the corner of my closet filled with forgotten concepts like D.I.Y. crop tops, fleece lined leggings and wrinkled Kit Kat wrappers to pursue something different.
This dude I really liked used to get inebriated off of $15 bottles UV Vodka and spent more time at Planet Fitness than the library, but I was defenseless to admiring the way he’d sing along to Post Malone and swoon over my countless hair flipping.
It was empowering to see beyond his Harambe straight belt and grammatical inefficiencies and unveil the soft light of an aspiring gym rat unready to acknowledge his existential crisis.
But it’s in the moment of his exuded ghosting I felt like I was swallowing lemon juice and salted ice with a mouth full of canker sores.
Why is it when a Casablanca-loving girl, vibrant like a Coachella mood board, begins liking a fraternity house butler (is the term “house bitch” too explicit and honest for college journalism?) in a Walking Dead beanie, she is left disappointed but not surprised?