The Problem: I'm American

Two days ago, I, more eloquently than ever, pinpointed my issue with Z. Are you ready?

"I'm American."

It was brilliant—a heated conversation regarding my contempt for the dreaded ex and instead of coming off as the jealous bitch, I was simply a product of my confused nation. A sheep, if you must.

My spin: As the US has done with Saddam Hussein and Bin Laden, I have taken all that is bad in my life and assigned it to a name, a face, an ex-girlfriend. And this is Z.

So when she calls to "do coffee" with Big, you can clearly understand my reaction (and if not understand it, at least understand where it's coming from).

"Blow her up!!"

Yes folks, this is how I justify my insanity and in doing it, my wit, charm, and brilliance lead to excellent, passionate sex with the man that I love.

Not bad, American. Not bad.