The Surly Quill


Welcome to my blog, Confessions of a Surly Quill.

We are finally underway with The 52 Week Breakup blog!  You can access it at the top of the page under The Blogs drop down menu.  There will be weekly posts so be sure to click the Follow button to receive notifications for new posts.

In addition to The 52 Week Breakup, you can also check out music videos on the If Music Be The Food of Love blog (also in the drop down list).  Most videos are posted in conjunction with each new blog post – but not always!  Too add a little more depression to your reading enjoyment, try listening to the songs as you read each post.

It adds a nice dramatic flair.

If you keep up with the posts, you’ll eventually see how the final blog – Edibles, comes into play.

But, having said all this, you don’t have to read every post from The 52 Week Breakup to enjoy my shitty recipes or blasé music selection.

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Whatever your libation, cheers! And enjoy!

she be fierce


52 Week Break Up

Week 2 – Quicky or Die

its overFinally!  I have finally unpacked the last box in this fucking apartment.  Oh – the relief!  I survived!  Thank Jesus.

Over the past few days I had to level with myself and realize that yes, looking at this apartment filled to the ceiling with boxes was going to be a daunting task.  But despite wanting to curl into the fetal position and sob uncontrollably, I just needed to focus on the task at hand and unpack one box at a time, room by room.  Sure as shit – little by little, the boxes became empty.  I took the time to carefully arrange everything just so – stacking my books in neat little piles on my bookshelf, arranging the decorative and dusty sticks in my vases to my liking, hell –  I think I moved the chair in my living room at least six times before I finally decided to put it in the corner.

drinking alone

As for the mental and emotional unpacking. . . well, that’s been put on the back burner for now.  To be honest, I just don’t want to think about it.  At this point, I’m just worn down.  I don’t have the energy or the want to even think about John or this breakup or this whole change in my life right now.  Just … fuck it.  Ideally, what I’d like to do is just get rip-roaring drunk and forget that all this is happening in my life.  Just for one night.

Thankfully, I was pretty busy with work this week which managed to occupy both my time and my mind.  I worked overtime every day (by choice) in order to make some extra cash – (after all, this bitch needs cable)!  Each night, after I climbed what seemed like the three hundred flights of stairs up to my apartment, fed the cat and bathed, I was exhausted.  Other co-workers joined the overtime team and it was clear come Friday that we needed a celebratory drink at the nearby pub.  I was hesitant at first, but then I realized – for the first time in a long time, I could go out for a night with no worries.  I didn’t have to be home to make dinner.  I didn’t have to call or text anyone to let them know where I was going and why.  I didn’t have to divulge who I was going out with and when I would be home.  I didn’t have to answer to anyone.  I could do whatever the hell I wanted.  I was free.


And with this freedom came this overwhelming urge to get laid.   But not some passionate love-making session – no – I just wanted a quicky.  Just a – boop boop – and I’m out.  I wasn’t looking for a rebound – in fact the last thing I was considering was another relationship.  And this urge didn’t have anything to do with revenge or “getting on a new one to get over the old one” feel.  I legitimately just wanted to have sex.   There – I said it. So with the intention of picking up a man and doing the deed, I went home, stuffed myself into some tight jeans, fixed up my face and headed to meet my fellow over-timers.

One beer, two beer, three shots later……..

Oh… oh the horror.

After all reservation and dignity had left my body and I had developed a new self-confidence, I scoured the room for a potential victim.  Like a black widow, my web was spun and I was ready to lure in my mate for the evening – albeit without the killing and all that.  My co-workers pointed out a rather handsome man sitting at the bar alone, wearing a suit and looking rather dapper.  I approached and initiated conversation.  Turns out he was supposed to be on a date that night but the girl he was supposed to meet never showed.  Poor bastard.  He was nice but upon closer inspection his eyes looked really “buggy” – you know – like too large for his face.  It was distracting.  And his teeth were out of whack.  Also distracting.  I know, I’m being totally shallow and superficial but whatever.  I still have standards.  I can’t fuck a guy with bug eyes, ok?  I politely backed away, wishing him well on his future endeavours for the evening and took a pass on Suit Guy.  We continued to survey the area.  Soon my attention was drawn to the bartender.  He was cute – really cute.  And he was tall – really tall.  And he had an aura about him that was just so attractive – or maybe it was the bulge in his trousers.  His smile was so perfect.  *sigh –  he was just beautiful to look at.  Now maybe it was the booze but I didn’t feel completely inebriated.  I mean, I was able to give this guy a thorough examination and trust me . . . it was thorough.

upand down

I even had the approval of my co-workers (who, let’s face it were just as drunk as I was, if not more).  After much girly, giggly debate they had convinced me to do the unthinkable.  Something that I have never done in my entire life. . . .

I gave Mr. Bartender my number.

Calm and cool I walked up the bar, ordered another beer and upon his return asked him for a napkin.  I was writing my name and number down (praying that it would legible) and explaining how, “I don’t normally do this, but if you’re interested, (sliding the napkin his way), here’s my number”.  He smiled.  I smiled.  I could feel my face getting hot so I grabbed my drink and as I turned away from the bar . . . . .

I noticed him . . .

take the napkin. . .

. . . fold it . . .


Jackpot!! Mission fucking accomplished!

I was overwhelmed, relieved, hot, and ready to hump his leg.  I was panicking.  I probably could have used a brown paper bag to hyperventilate in.  I briefly entertained the idea of paying his boss his wages for the remainder of the night just to take Mr. Bartender home then and there.

Alas, I didn’t let my sex-crazed psycho show.  No, no.  I kept it under control and remained a lady.  Obvi.

I walked back to my table of groupies, cheering me on from a distance and described what had happened.  They were ecstatic – living vicariously through me and my sex-capades. We all raised our glasses in a toast to my accomplishments and my dreams of having sex with Mr. Bartender.

As the night drew to a close I had sobered up and decided it was time to hit the ol’ dusty trail.  After all, I didn’t need to keep drinking and wind up embarrassing myself and ruining my chances.  Things had already worked out so well.  On the way home I was feeling on top of the world.  I couldn’t believe that Mr. Bartender actually took my number.  It made me feel like, I still had it.  I felt young, vibrant, attractive and confident.  I felt like I could conquer anything (and anyone).  I hadn’t felt that way in a very long time.

I got home, peeled myself out of my jeans and put on my wooly and tattered sweater.  Ah, the comforts of home.  I didn’t expect to receive a text from Mr. Bartender that night – although, I’m certain I would’ve jumped at the opportunity – regardless of the time of night.  But no, I remember this game.  There’s a waiting period.  This ain’t my first rodeo.


The Wrap Up:

Week 2:  I’ve managed to keep my thoughts about John and this break up at bay.  If anything, I’ve realized that keeping my mind occupied is key in maintaining composure.  Whether it’s work, being around friends or reading a good book – staying busy is crucial at this point.

Having finally unpacked all the boxes, my nerves seemed to have settled down quite a bit.  I’m no longer feeling overwhelmed.  Instead, I think I may have actually gained a sense of control.

Not gonna lie though – Mr. Bartender was definitely the highlight of my week.  I’m excited.  And surprisingly, it’s not all in response to the hopeful quicky.  I actually want to talk to this guy.  I guess . . . I guess I’m kind of smitten with him.


And now, I wait. . .



52 Week Break Up

Week 1 – The Beginning of the End

moving dayWell . . . here I am.

What the fuck have I done.

I left with the bare minimums – my clothes, my Keurig and my cat.  Despite my anger I didn’t want to leave John with nothing.  When he told me to take what was mine I looked around the house and realized, most of this shit was mine.  The furniture, the coffee table, the pictures that adorned our walls, the pots and pans…fuck everything was mine.  I was what made this house a home.  Yet, I couldn’t take everything.  If I took what he said literally, I would be leaving him with nothing but a bed and four walls.  Maybe that’s all he deserved but … I still loved him.  I couldn’t be that cold. I figured it would just be easier to leave him with everything rather than bicker and fight about who gets what.  Screw that shit.

I didn’t know how I was going to do it.  I had no money.  I didn’t have a truck let alone a moving crew.  This move was beginning to feel more daunting than the breakup itself.  But thankfully, between friends and coworkers, I was able to furnish my apartment with just about everything I could need.  People donated a couch, a TV, dishes and someone even threw in some toilet paper.  I called in some old debts and found a friend with a van and a couple more willing to work for pizza and beer.  Before I knew it, I was moved in over the course of a weekend.

The only thing I purchased brand new was my bed.  There were a few reasons for this:

1) I needed a place to lay my head at night.  During the process of figuring out who owned what, the bed was John’s – so he kept it.  I didn’t want that musty piece of shit anyway.  It was old, uncomfortable and had developed pale yellow silhouettes from years of night sweats on his side.

2) It was the one thing that had no attachment to John. Even though I left with my things they still reminded me of him.  They were still in our house. This bed however, was new and free of any reminders.

3) It gave me a feeling of strength, oddly enough.  It was My bed.  My sanctuary.  My comfort zone.  No sex had been had in this bed.  No man had laid in this bed.  It was fresh, clean and let’s face it, it was finally my kind of firmness.  I may not have furnished my apartment on my own per se, but I was damned if I was going to have a used bed to boot.  No sir.  This one thing –  I would purchase on my own.

Yet, despite all this, something just doesn’t feel right.  I’m not sure if I was expecting instantaneous happiness the moment I moved out or what, but I’m lacking that feeling and sense of relief.  In a way, perhaps the biggest blessing in all this is that I haven’t given much thought to John or this breakup at all.  I’ve been so busy with packing and moving and now unpacking that this whole breakup hasn’t really crossed my mind.  I just don’t feel like I’ve really grieved this breakup at all.  Maybe it’s just not the time.

In addition to the move, I’ve also taken a hiatus from Facebook.  Although I haven’t deleted John as a friend, I’ve changed my settings so that he won’t appear on my feed.  I’m not sure why I haven’t just removed him entirely.  I’m sure some psycho analysis would imply that I’m not entirely over John and I’m hanging on to whatever I can so as not to officially ‘lose’ him or this relationship.  And as long as I have the means to access him through Facebook, this relationship isn’t truly over.  . . . And there’s probably some truth in that.  But, trust me – I don’t want to ‘check up on him’ and I have no inkling to do so.  The last thing I need is to see him happy, or photos of him embracing some ‘cash me ousside‘ broad.  Uuugh.   And speaking honestly, I haven’t texted, called or even had the urge to do so.  I’ve changed my mailing address, I’ve changed the beneficiary on my life insurance and I’ve rid him of my benefits.  I’ve made every necessary change to at least ensure he doesn’t appear on paper anywhere.  Like he never existed.  So I can’t fully explain why Facebook seems to hold this power over me or why I can’t just unfriend him and remove him completely.

God damn you social media!

damn you

In other news, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ve gotten myself in way over my head.  Maybe it’s because all this is uncharted territory for me.  New apartment, new start, new life.  I’m not sure how to feel about it all.  I suppose I should be feeling liberated, alive and free but I’m also still trying to catch up to the fact that I actually fucking did it.  I left.  I’m out.  It’s all so much so fast, you know?  The conservative side of me is having a fucking panic attack with all these recent changes.  The wild and free side of me is just rolling with the punches.  I’m a torn soul at this point.

Another obstacle is my finances.  I am so broke I don’t even know how the hell I’m going to manage all this.  When I found my apartment I made sure to budget accordingly so that I wouldn’t run into any issues down the road.  But since every penny I had was spent on moving into this place and buying certain necessities like a loaf of bread, a broom and shower curtain, I’m wondering how the hell I can even put gas in the car for the week.  I guess that’s the lack of security talking.

Maybe I just need to take some solace in the fact that I have a roof over my head and a bed to sleep on.  Like my mama always used to say, “things always have a way of working out”.  I hope in this case she’s right.

The Wrap Up:

Week 1:  Slightly depressed, perhaps a little psychotic, lost 5 pounds. Fridge is empty, but at least my floors are clean.  Still lots of unpacking to do – both literally and emotionally.

Do I regret leaving John?  . . . No.

I may not have food in the fridge or cable, but at least I look forward to coming home.  I no longer have to worry about coming home to a counter full of empty beer cans and hearing “what’s for dinner?” being shouted from the living room as John and his hooligan friends sit on their asses, passing a doob around.   No, instead I walk through my door and it’s quiet, it’s clean.  Everything is how I left it.  I can relax.  Such simple and subtle joys but they are joys none the less.

And perhaps the most important thing through all this is that I am truly loved.  And isn’t that something?  Even though I’ve lost my relationship, I’m still surrounded by love through all the people who helped me when they didn’t have to.  Whether they offered their time, their vehicle, or their belongings – they helped me in whatever way possible.  I could have been left for the wolves, but at times like this, I am reminded that love comes in many forms and is not just defined by a relationship with one person.  I had forgotten this.  I had forgotten that I was loved by more than just one person in this world.






52 Week Break Up

A Prelude – (part 2)

“For the most part, I’m ok with it.  I’m excited.  I’m hopeful. But my mind or my heart still have some regret.  I can feel it.  It would be easier to just live and let live – give in and just carry on.  That would be EASY.  A part of me is scared.  Terrified actually.  I don’t know if I’m making the right decision – how could I?  But I know I can’t go back.  I can’t keep doing this.  I’ve forgotten what it means to be happy.  I don’t remember that feeling.  And that too, scares me.”

Before moving into my apartment, I had a 2 week time period of living under the same roof with the man I just ended my relationship with.  I didn’t have the luxury of going to a friends’ place or staying with mom and dad.  I just had to tough it out.  But seriously, how fucking awkward is that?


Every day I packed a little more of my things, just trying to remain busy – focused on the task at hand.  But it was so strange to see him sitting on the couch, playing video games while I packed up my life around him.  It’s like it didn’t even phase him.  I kept thinking that a simple “I’m sorry and I love you” would make me cave and stay.  It was literally 3 days before I left when I finally received his apology which I’ll never forget:

“Listen, I know you probably don’t care, but I’m sorry.  Ok?  This is all my fault and. . . I’m sorry.”

It was so devoid of any emotion and sincerity that my response consisted of an eye roll followed by “well, thanks.  I appreciate that”.  What the hell else could I say?  It felt as though the only reason he even attempted to apologize was because it was “the right thing to do” in his opinion.  I had my self convinced that an apology would make this all better but once I received it,  I was numb.  I realized that this breakup ran so much deeper than an apology.  There was no band-aid for this one.

I just had to keep reminding myself – do not sway.  Stay firm on your decision.  Hold.  Your.  Ground.

As easy as it would have been to just forget all this, forgive him and move on, I know that it would just put me right back in this same position in a matter of months from now.  So during my 2 week stay I used my anger as my motivation.  I was so incredibly mad at him – for many things.  For not giving a fuck about this relationship and for letting it come to this.  I was mad at the fact that he saw nothing wrong with his actions – because according to John, I was the crazy one – I was the loose cannon who was making mountains out of mole hills.  I was pissed that nearly every day over the course of those two weeks he could sit on the couch, drinking beer after beer with this shit eating grin on his face – like some smug, heartless fucking bastard.  All the while, I’m crumbling, I’m a mess.  I’m stressed, I’m tired, I haven’t slept or ate in days.  Every single day I asked myself if this break up was worth it.  Was it worth dealing with all this emotional stress?  Again, it’s that constant internal battle I have with myself – back and forth – back and forth.

But, when I even considered the possibility of reconciling all this and getting back together with him, I took a quick jaunt down memory lane and remembered all the times ruined by this ‘wonderful man’.  Like the time I bought him and I tickets to a band that we both enjoyed only to sit in the seat alone while he entertained everyone at the bar by buying them shots.  And not even buying me a single drink.  Or the times we would go out with friends only to see him fraternizing with the female bartender or doing lines of coke in the bathroom all night long.

Oh yes.

This was my man alright.  I was never more proud.


I rehash these memories to stay strong – to stay devoted to the task at hand.  Every painful memory is fuel to keep this little train a chuggin’.  As easy as it is to cave and submit, it’s also just as easy to remember these embarrassing and hurtful moments and build that confidence back up again.  So far, it seemed to be working for me.

However, if I’m being honest, a part of me wished that it never came to this.  I know from the outside looking in, it looks like John is one of the biggest pieces of shit in this world.  But, like in any relationship, it’s not always bad.  You cling to the good times because it makes you feel that happiness is attainable with that person.  I’ve felt happiness with John and I’ve felt love.  I’ve had moments where I was so sure that this was the man I was supposed to be with for the rest of my life.  There were times when I was so sure that he was my soul mate – my other half.  After all, how can we go 10 years together and not be right for each other?  I wanted to be with John and I wanted to grow old with him.  And now, I’m deeply saddened by the fact that it won’t happen.  It can’t happen.  10 years with someone and poof – gone.  Done. Over.  It’s final. . .


This is hard.

It’s hard because I’ve made a decision that is the epitome of a double edged sword.  I’m ending this relationship in order to be happy in life, but at the same time, this decision is not resulting in any sort of happiness for me.  Alas, I cannot afford to be a Debbie Downer at this point.  I’ve already made the decision to leave.  There’s no turning back.  I have to find the strength to press on, keep moving forward.

I just need to keep reminding myself:



Keep hanging on.

If music be the food of love. . .

If Music Be The Food of Love, Play On


Music is a powerful thing.  It can change the mood of someone almost instantly.  It can make us cry, tap a toe, or even get angry – out of thin air.  It can cure a wounded soul and soothe a broken heart.  Music is quite simply, the best.

Here you will find music that I not only enjoy, but music that has had an effect on me (and for the most part still does).  Some are also posted here because I had one too many beers and didn’t know any better.  The point is, it’s music.  Music can bring people together and maybe you have some go-to music that you turn to when you need it – for whatever reason.  Feel free to share with me.  Discovering new music is like trying new food.  If you don’t try, you’ll never know what you’re missing.


elaine dance