Exes fall into three categories:

1. The universally-liked exes. The ones your mother always mentions at Thanksgiving dinner “whatever happened to ________; he was such a nice boy.” (Mom, for the 500th time — he’s gay!)

Or

2. The ones who most likely refer to you as their crazy-ex girlfriend (perhaps for good reason *clears throat*)

Or

3. The exes who present you with consistent moral dilemmas. Should you call for help or watch him drown? Is burning an acceptable way to dispose of his stuff? If he calls you again is yelling: WHY DON’T YOU JUST DIE AND NEVER TALK TO ME AGAIN the best response that you can think of? (It’s not. You can get much more creative than that).

If #3 sounds familiar then you’ve got a serious case of bad blood. You know that feeling you get where every conversation, no matter how benign (how are you? How are you?) turns into an aggressive argument or Olympic shouting match. Where just seeing his face makes you feel slightly violent hormonal and unpredictable as a cyclone. I’ve lived this feeling.

I have exactly one ex-boyfriend where there was bad blood. And it was serious. Because my dad reads this blog, I won’t tell you the very creative things that I came up with to yell at him over the phone, but believe me, they were exceptionally inventive and fully conveyed the range of my emotions.

How did we get bad blood? I don’t remember exactly. Probably via some lies and dissimulation. Some convenient misplacing of truth here and there. A complete breakdown in communication, maybe – nothing particularly salacious or tawdry. I don’t really remember all of the details, but it definitely started with love.

I loved that kid. Fiercely. Wholeheartedly. I was done. He was the end for me. My emails from that period of my life are littered with his name — my version of electronic doodling. All was sweetness and light and longing. And then it was dark, and dark, and dark.

Perhaps all bad blood starts with love. Love that draws another close enough that the lines of separateness are blurred. Close enough to etch a mark at the juncture of breastbone and heart tissue. Bad blood is a way of mourning and grieving the passing of Love. It’s what happens when you rip apart an intertwined life.

Enough waxing poetic about spoilt Love. The bad blood goes away eventually (though it can linger for an exceptionally long time — ask anyone who has ever been divorced) and you get over a broken heart the same way that you get over radiation exposure: Time, Distance, and Shielding.

What brought on this topic? Two things:
1) I’ve been listening to the new Taylor Swift album (#judgmentfreezone) and she has an awesome song called Bad Blood.

Cause baby now we got bad blood
You know it used to be mad love
So take a look what you’ve done
Cause baby now we got bad blood (hey!)
Now we got problems
And I don’t think we can solve ‘em
You made a really deep cut
and baby now we got bad blood (hey!)

Which, naturally made me think of my own experiences with bad blood.

2) The Mayor. You remember the Mayor, don’t you? Well, he doesn’t want to be the Mayor anymore. So, let’s call him the ex-Mayor. The ex-Mayor and I had some serious bad blood following our 3 months long game that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with miscommunication, a parking garage showdown, seven months of not speaking, a faux apology, my refusal to accept childish apology, and the ultimate: Facebook unfriending.

I saw him for the first time in nine months on Saturday and I was tempted to pointedly ignore his presence and seethe in bad blood, thinking of everything biting and witty that I could put away in my arsenal. You’ll be pleased to know that I rose above my natural inclination which led to a hilarious — and entirely too loud — airing of grievances (seriously the Bouncer looked shocked at some of what he was overhearing), and a tentative truce though no plans as yet for a Facebook reunion. Which gives me some hope that not all failed romances ultimately lead to bad blood.

That’s all from Singlevania–though I’m totally interested in your bad blood stories (ergo the comment section below if you’re brave enough).

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