The Imitation Game

It’s been almost two years since the world crumbled from beneath my feet and I landed in a new and and oh-my-god-so-much-better one. Apart from the obvious time-healing, the mini battles of not letting what he, and she, thought was perfectly reasonable to do to another person affect my future, and the anger that still ebbs and flows, it’s the human nature of intrigue that is responsible for experiencing what it’s like to be imitated.

As I have never had the truth fall from the mouth of the cunning little weasel that I am ashamed to say I ever associated with, and the fact that the cunning little weasel and his Petite Mademoiselle (?) from Quebec played around for two years, yes two years, behind my back/right in front of me I often struggle with accepting that it is seemingly acceptable to live as though they fell ‘in love’ honestly and without hurting anybody along the way.

So I guess you could say that having the odd peak at what the little lovebirds are up to is just a way of reinforcing that not only am I grateful that Little Miss Quebec took that cunning little weasel into her life and freed me but it also reinforces the fact that it never ceases to amaze me how deluded, dishonest, and probably not that much of a stable a life two people can lead. It’s the level of dishonesty that continuously surprises me.

It surprises me but also just fuels the simmering anger below the surface.

You see, everything you can do, yes you Little Miss Quebec, I can do better. 

There appears to be a little Imitation Game happening.

It has gone something like this:

I had a husband. She stole him.
I had friends. She stole them.
I used to bake for them. Now she bakes for them.
I write. She writes.
I dance. She likes dance.
I move on. She follows.
I go running. She goes running.
I write more. She writes more.
I post run times. Now she posts run times.
I visit places. She visits those places.
I post bait for her. She bites.
I climb mountains. And now she wants to climb mountains.
I write about places. And suddenly those places appear on her list of things to see.

The list continues like this. And while in written down in black and white it may feel petty but it sometimes feels as though I am having my identity stolen. And this identity thief has a following of believers that believe the lie that she, and he are living.

There is no remorse. There is no honesty. There is only layer upon layer of lie that both are entwined in.

I want those to know that she is not me and I am not her. I haven’t rewritten posts like she has to disguise the truth. (The truth I still have from copies of from when I filed for divorce.)

I have one thing that she doesn’t have and that is integrity.

There are two intriguing possible conclusions that can come from the Imitation Game. The first, that the imitator is jealous and/or insecure and envious. The second, that the cunning little weasel has settled for a more pathetic and dishonest version of what he already had. Either way, they both kind of run a long side each other.

In any other circumstance I might have gone with imitation being the sincerest form of flattery but in this instance it’s feels more like parasite that I can’t get rid of.

I look forward to seeing the parasite imitate some honesty.

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