I don’t handle break ups very well. I never have. So yeah, just in case you weren’t aware, this last one has me pretty fucked-up.
My spirits are crushed. My frame of mind utterly skullfucked. My drive decimated. I mean yeah, I get like this after every break up. I always do. They’re like premature burials for my soul. And the suffering always lingers for far longer than the joy I had while I was dating someone. But this one with Ari… well, it has to be the worst.
At this point, I can’t even write. I haven’t written shit in weeks. Almost all my hobbies die with my happiness it seems like. I just sit in my home office all night, staring at an unforgiving laptop screen. The booze and smoke does nothing. No books or movies fuel my creative drive. And of course, there’s no Ariana around to encourage me.
It’s now been almost a month since she dumped me. And the pain still feels fresh. Like I’m forever stuck in that sickening single moment when she told me she no longer loved me. A harsh time loop I can’t escape.
I should be used to the bitter break ups by now. Love is like a roller coaster, you know. There’s all those anxious moments in the build-up. The fun excitement. And then once you reach that top, the relationship ride is fucking transcendent. You’ve got optimism. You feel loved. You feel great… and you’ve got the entire future to feel this way! Things are wonderful. But then the inevitable happens. Like my goofy roller coaster analogy, those moments at the top are fleeting and all too brief before those relationships come hurtling back down. And just like that, the love is over. The joy is gone. You’re back off the ride and desperate for that next thrill. Only as you get older, those thrills get so much harder to find…
I thought Ari was it. I thought she got me. I thought she loved me. I mean she loved my writing, my jokes, my creativity. She even thought I was super hot! And I’ll be damned, if she didn’t make me look more attractive… not because she would be standing next to me like a gorgeous accessory. But she actually helped give me fucking style pointers, man! A new haircut, new clothes… she motivated me to lose weight and get in shape. Yeah, it’s superficial bullshit, I get that. But I felt better. I’d never felt as attractive or confident than with her. Being unconventionally handsome and eccentric will make you self-conscious, guys. It will give you nervous tics/habits that make you look spastic as fuck. But Ari took me out of that! She was like a pretty therapist. My pretty therapist.
And this therapist was also my creative partner. She pushed me in my writing. I wasn’t just imagining this shit either… people actually laughed at my jokes more than they ever had before. SNL showed off more of my work. I became more prolific. And I was so damn consistent! My creative fire flourished like never before. Maybe I’d become more famous because of Ariana, but I rose to the challenge with excellent fucking material. Shit I was proud of too! I’m talking I’d spend hours in my office each night just cranking out brilliance. A mad scientist of comedy! I couldn’t miss. At least, I felt that way. And I had no one except Ari to thank for that.
And not to brag but I feel like I had a similar effect on her music. She admired my prolific creativity. My vision. How hard I worked. And I know it rubbed off on her during those Sweetener sessions. On that album, she had more creative control than ever. She told me she felt like a true artist on this one. Better production value, more innovation, and she’d even written the vast majority of the songs. She was proud of her masterpiece and deservedly so. And Goddamn, she could sing! But then again, you lovely people already knew that.
Until I first heard Sweetener, I had no idea there was even a track named after me. A sweet, short track (About as long as our relationship, right! Yeah, I’ve only heard that bullshit a hundred times! ZOMG!1! still so Goddamn funny!1!11). But I could hear the emotion in her voice. The Ari I knew. Her tender emotions. She meant those lyrics. Every fucking word. We’ll call it ninety seconds of bliss… and yeah, maybe our relationship was just five months of bliss. But it was still the best five months of my life. And naming a song for me was akin to John Belushi literally crawling out of the grave to tell me I was one of the funniest motherfuckers to ever come out of the SNL family. That song meant even more considering it wasn’t high praise coming from my deceased idol but instead from my one true love.
And through it all, I dealt with all the bullshit. The low blows. Yeah, I mean motherfuckers like you assholes reading this. You’re probably now talking about what a loser I am to be using a burner on Reddit while complaining about my beautiful-and-immensely-more-talented ex-girlfriend. Okay, first of all, fuck you. Second, thank you for reading this.
But yeah, the constant criticism got old, man. I get it. Ariana’s gorgeous. I’m not. I’m sorry that the world and Twitter never considered me worthy of Ari. I’m sorry I could never live up to whatever Magic-Mike/Michael-B.-Jordan-level expectations you motherfuckers had. I’m just a geeky, neurotic comedy writer, alright. Yeah, I hit the jackpot with that girl. So fucking be it. He isn’t worthy, he’s creepy looking, what’s she doing with his uglyass, he ain’t even famous. I get it. You don’t have to keep fucking reminding me. I’m in mourning now, Goddammit! And whether you like it or not, I loved Ariana. And she loved me.
Maybe I could’ve been better… and when Mac died, it hurt both of us. I didn’t care about their history. Mac was my friend, he was a nice dude. I still bawled like a bitch when I heard what happened. Shit, I cried as much as Ariana did.
Ultimately, I really wish things had worked out between us, man. I really do… I still do. She brought out the best in me. Ari was my inspiration. My creative muse, the most beautiful girl I’d ever met, and my partner-in-crime. The Goldie Hawn to my Kurt Russell. Not to mention Ari’s actually funny as shit. Her help took my best work from being just okay to fucking brilliant. And I like to think I was a major factor in her evolution as a songwriter.
But deep down, I know she had no choice. I can’t blame or fault her for what happened. I do know Ari’s strong as fuck though. She’ll get through this and keep making dopeass music. Her songwriting will only get better… which is terrifying since she’s so fucking young, man. How the Hell do you write perfect pop music at twenty-five? Maybe it’s too soon and maybe I’m just overdosing on love, but her trajectory is no different than John Lennon’s, man. Her music is only getting more and more mature. And she still has the voice of Aretha. I can’t think of any other teen idol who’s made such a seamless transition to being a full-fledged superstar quite like her. She’s an icon. And yeah. I was once her fiance. Now, I’m just a footnote to her brilliant career.
However, there was more to our break up than anyone else knows. There was more to it than just a collision of our creativity. Or our volatile emotions. Ariana found out about what was really in my home office. She found out about my past. And what I’d kept hidden in my basement all these years.
With our engagement, the pressure to tell her the truth finally broke me down. She knew I’d had problems in the past. She knew I didn’t handle those other break ups too well… so finally, I just had to tell her the truth. I felt compelled.
And so I did, I told her everything. I told her how those last couple of break ups had emotionally drained me. And how empty I felt afterward. I told her how I’d lost the most important thing to me during those long months I spent alone and heartbroken: my creativity. I couldn’t write shit. I was losing spots on SNL.
The loneliness ate me alive on the inside. Yeah, I smoked. I drank. But no one really wanted to chill with me. I felt isolated… and my anger only increased.
Through the tears, I told Ariana how I’d pick up strangers at bars and clubs. Men, women, it didn’t matter. I’d bring them back to my office and kill them. I’d torture them. What creativity I’d lost in my writing, I’d rekindle here in my makeshift “torture chamber.”
I had so many weapons. My mood helped me dictate what kind of slaughter I wanted to create. There were the nights I used tools (a hammer, a saw), there were nights I used those always reliable knives. And sometimes… well, fuck it, sometimes I got real creative and used whatever I laid my hungry eyes on (broken CDs, stapler… yeah, this was more messy but more fun).
No one could hear my victims scream. I lived out in the country after all. My home office was a fortress for my vicious focus. Soundproof walls, no windows. The long table just sturdy enough to hold up all the fit and skinny models (both male and female) I butchered.
I made sure my victims didn’t recognize me either… I mean shit, I hardly had any fans as is, so why kill them? These were just airheads and meatheads. Dimbulb pretty people. The same ones who’d always criticized me for not being good enough for Ari. But fuck them, they were good enough to have me hack them to fucking pieces.
I’d kill them in my office and then bury them down in the basement. The set-up was perfect. No one ever knew. And no one suspected a thing. After all, how could they? Me, the awkward, goofy-looking comedian being a methodical and clever serial killer? They said I wasn’t even good enough to be Ariana’s fiancee much less be Patrick fucking Bateman!
Of course, in due time, I’d recover from these killing sprees. Like I always did. I’d stop the murders and get back in the groove within the confines of my home office. I’d get back to writing. Back to my prolific ways… of course, my creativity would only accelerate once I dated a new girl. Especially with Ari.
But at first, she didn’t even believe my dark secrets. I had to dig up the bodies and show her what was left. The bones covered with tattered flesh. The decaying severed heads. The collection of items I’d kept in my office.
After all, I liked “trophies.” I liked keeping track of my gruesome progress while also preserving the exciting memories. There was jewelry, wallets, keychains. I kept all of them in a large Ziploc storage bag… the bag weighed down by both the items and the gallons of my victims’ blood. Keeping that bag made me feel like a proud mother with a scrapbook of her child’s accomplishments. Just like my mom had done for me. Only my bag was a shrine to me being the badass. I wasn’t just the awkward, unattractive boyfriend anymore. I was the fucking killer! And the bag proved it!
When I showed it to Ari in my office, she lost it right then and there. I tried pleading with her that she was safe. I never killed my exes and would never hurt the love of my life. Her confidence crumbled and she looked scared. Looking into my victims’ dying eyes never made me feel as ravaged as looking into Ariana’s terrified eyes at that moment.
Desperate, I tried to tell her I wouldn’t kill again. Regardless of all the evil I’d done, I could control it! Just as long as she stayed with me. As long as she could compromise with me like I’d done with her so many times in the past. If she was curious or had a bloodlust (how amazing that would be!), I’d even bring her along on these trips. And then in my office, we’d kill together! We’d share the thrills and excitement. A sexy killer couple ripe for tabloid headlines and round-the-clock E! coverage.
But Ari couldn’t handle it. She left me in tears. And I was left holding my goody bag in tears. I didn’t chase after her. She knew I loved her. But ultimately, I can’t blame Ariana for later ending our engagement and blocking my number and social media. A week later, she sent me my ring back. My worst fear had arrived. Ariana had left me. I’d scared away the woman I loved. And I had no one to blame but myself.
I wasn’t mad at her. Not ever. My murders would be hard for anyone to accept. Much less a superstar with as pure a heart as Ari’s. If she had no “dark side” or even a morbid curiosity, it’d only make sense she’d call off the wedding.
But I was still upset. I felt terrible about ruining our love. And the internet was fucking relentless. So were the talking heads on T.V. But Goddamn, the trolls and Ariana warriors were something else… they wanted to blame me. Keep on with the same he’s not good enough for her, he’s ugly, and he’s not even funny. As much as I try to play it off, the comments hurt. Like constant stabs from a self-righteous crowd. From Ari’s vigilantes. Jesus, it felt like I was in high school again. Alienated and bullied by all those who felt better than me.
Except now the insults hurt even worse considering these assholes had no idea how much I loved Ariana. And now they’ll likely never know.
Sometimes, I wonder why Ari couldn’t just try to understand me? She just wouldn’t listen when I said I never killed when I was in a relationship. When I was happy. Much less when I was about to marry my dreamgirl! I can control these sinister urges. With Ariana, I was happy. I adored her. And together, we brought out the best in our creativity. We did the best work of our careers while in this relationship.
And now here I am back in the gutter. Back in my void of a writer’s block. My creativity stifled. My drive more suppressed than the lovely man and woman now tied to my office table.
Here it is three A.M. I’m a few beers in on this lonely Friday night. In my office, my laptop screen is blank. My notebooks blank. I haven’t written shit. And I won’t for a few months at least.
Sweetener plays on my laptop. The ultra-catchy title track swirls all around me, overpowering the cries of the bound-and-gagged couple.
Wearing a plastic raincoat, I lean back in my chair. I close my eyes and enjoy the music. Relish Ariana’s soulful voice. Like a drumstick, I tap the axe handle in my gloved hands.
Enjoying the memories the song provides, I pulled out an old scrapbook from the office shelf. The scrapbook I’d always kept on top of my goody bag.
Looking through the book, I stare at those pictures of me and Ariana with pride. Yeah, I know they’re all clipped from newspapers and magazines… but she’s still in them. And man, we look sexy together. She looks happy.
As I go further through the book, the photos get older. Like snapshots from my past. You see, this wasn’t the first time I was engaged. There was that sweet romance I had back around 2016. Back when I was trying to be a rapper… I told you I’ve got a lot of hobbies, man. But like with Ariana, I got overshadowed by my first fiancee. She was fierce and strong… a lot like Ariana actually. I loved Nicki Minaj too. And when she found out my secret, well… she had the same reaction Ariana did. She left me. And after all that bliss, I went through months of torture. My only reprieve from the torture was murder. And trust me, I did a lot of that. All for Nicki, of course.
Jesus, me and Nicki looked so good in those pictures too. I was a lot tanner then. But I had serious talent as a rapper. My name Meek Mill was clever. I even had fans. But still, like when I was with Ariana, people always looked to shit on me, man. These talentless, dickless fucks were always criticizing me… Meek Mill ain’t shit Meek is lame. Goddamn, me and Nicki were happy. Nicki loved me. And I loved her.
The clipped photos were starting to yellow with age… but at least I had them preserved forever in this scrapbook. I had Nicki in my memories. The times we were happy. Not to mention, my goody bag had all the “collectibles” I’d taken from the victims she was partially responsible for.
Then I reached another relationship in my Rolodex of memories. This was around early 2016. Before Nicki and back when I was trying to be a DJ/techno genius under the guise Calvin Harris. Pretty lame phase I know. But one good thing did come out of it: I got to date Taylor Swift. Okay, maybe it wasn’t as serious as what me and Nicki or me and Ariana had, but Taylor was cool. She had a quirky sense of humor like them.
However, I always got the vibe I loved her more than she loved me. And again, she was much more famous than me! Plus, way younger… so yeah. Even when I had written songs for Rihanna and Ellie Goulding, I was still fodder for Taylor’s fan base and internet warriors.
And once she found out my secret. Well, you know how that goes. It set me off even worse when she ditched me in a fucking text message.
Again, all that happiness gave way to an inevitable fall. Those inevitable few months where I kill as many attractive people as possible. People who were so attractive like Taylor.
Man, even with the scrapbook’s photos all crumpled and torn, I could still gaze into Taylor’s pretty face all night. I could look at all my exes’ pretty faces, honestly.
While there a few more relationships buried in the back of the book, I couldn’t take any more. The memories were becoming painful. Everything’d gone from bittersweet to brutal so quickly. Like an endless loop of regrets.
Angry, I slammed the scrapbook shut. All around me, Ariana’s voice haunted me. Just like my memories with her will forever torment me.
I understand why these women break up with me. I get it. I know I’m strange. Different. Maybe even creepy. And they have their own lives and careers to worry about. Especially when all of them are so damn talented. So much more talented than me. And according to the internet, so much more attractive than me.
In my solemn “fortress,” I put the scrapbook back on the shelf. Right on top of my gruesome bag.
It’s weird how this cycle goes. I remember in 2007 after Britney Spears dumped me (Yeah, I was actually married at one point). At the time, I was fairly famous for doing boy band shit. But when I went to a hospital for depression and what people claimed was some sort of delusion disorder or psychosis (LOL), no one believed I was Kevin Federline. Crazy, man. Almost as crazy as the people who tell me I’m not Pete Davidson. But looking back, that break up with Britney was what got me on this… process. The rebound murders.
So now I’m back home in Stanwyck, Georgia. But at least tonight, I’m not alone.
I look over at the office table. The young man and woman keep straining under those tight ropes. But they’re not going anywhere. They never do until it’s time to drag the leftovers down into the basement.
I already took the guy’s baseball cap and girl’s bottle opener keychain for safekeeping. All that’s left now is the funpart. The only question is who should I stab first and where should I sink this axe’s brutal blade?
Honestly, I’m nervous. I haven’t killed anyone in over five months. Not since me and Ariana started dating. Murder is like sex, you know. So much of it can be awkward and weird. But unfortunately for this cute couple, I’m a Hell of a lot better at killing than fucking. And with Ariana gone, my motivation is all murder at this point.
The young man and woman’s helpless eyes look on at me. As if they sense my hesitancy. My awkwardness. They’re like children with feet stuck in the railroad tracks. They’re helpless. Oh so helpless.
For a moment there, I considered dropping the axe. Maybe if I let them go, they won’t tell anyone. Maybe they really don’t recognize me. After all, now that Ari dumped me, what was I famous for? SNL was already losing interest in my work. Not that I’d written jack shit since Ariana left anyway.
But then in the same way Ariana had always inspired me, I heard her voice call to me from the laptop. Her song for me. “pete davidson.” However she felt now, Ariana loved me back then. I know she did. And that song always takes me back to that euphoria we both felt. To that place when we were both happy.
Tears sliding down my face, I smiled at my latest victims.
Ariana’s soft voice serenaded me. She gave me the strength to carry on.
The man and woman looked confused. Confused and terrified. They stopped whimpering. As if my tears signified I had a change of heart in my murderous intentions.
But I didn’t. With “pete davidson” serving as my heartfelt soundtrack, I stood up and pulled the axe back.
Instantly, the couple quivered beneath the ropes. Their horrified cries muffled by the duct tape. Their own tears flowed from their wide-open eyes. Ariana Grande the last voice they’d ever hear. My name the last song they’d ever hear.
And what a song it was. Ariana’s voice reassured me like the comforting words of an empathetic mother. Even without Ari’s love, this song would forever be my rallying cry.
Chuckling with joy, I hoisted the axe up high over the man’s face. Thanks for the memories, Ari. This is for you.