I got blocked on Instagram the other night by a girl my ex is dating. A first for me. It happened because my ex posted a picture of her in front of a news headline that said "wife from hell". I wasn't into it and the friend who I was with didn't like it either and made a couple unwelcome comments. She did me a favor though. I saw too much. I'd think "you really shouldn't" and then I would type her name into the search bar and open images that gave me sensations a little like getting stabbed by a butter knife. I'd try to talk myself out of it. But it's like when you put 10% of your paycheck in savings and say "this time I'm not going to touch it" and then three days later you transfer it into checking while you're standing in line at whole foods. I was asked to write a treatment for a show that's being pitched. The concept about love and relationships. I (obviously) pulled from life and wrote a pretty thorough account of the life cycle of my ex and I. In it, I mention a shadow box he made for me on one of our anniversaries where he superglued the bottle of Jim Beam we drank on our first date. I showed him the treatment and he told me later he threw the bottle away. He said he was purging and it was the last thing he trashed. He said he just thought "fuck the past" and he did it. Gone. It seemed right. If things are going to end, better they're tied up in a bag and driven away in a dump truck. Better to be blocked on Instagram. Life has its cycles. I'm happy we had ours, but somehow it's nice to feel the ending, to stare goodbyes in the face. For example, I just looked at a potted plant in my living room and said, "you're dead."