For a very brief moment, there was someone who was saying good morning and good night every single day. For a very brief moment, there was someone who cared about me “that way”. And why? Because he was hoping to have a place to put his dick. Someplace soft and warm and wet.
A contract. But I breached.
So “love” is the agreement, “Fuck me and I’ll let you feel cared for”?
Whatever happened to, “I care for you, so when we see each other, I know our love will be there,” and we let things unfold, naturally?
Nope. There has to be a “sex agreement” in advance, apparently.
I
AM
SO
TIRED
OF
THIS
SHIT.
Four break-ups in one year. It’s the same shit - different year. Reminds me of 2012 through 2014, before my last suicidal depression. Yep...this is familiar, all right.
Damn these thoughts...
“And now there will be no one.”
“I’m not worth the risk unless the sex is that good? That often? Vagina videos and sexting every day?”
“And he was the last one who will ever want me, and I screwed it up. Just because I wouldn’t screw him soon enough.”
“It’s all over now.”
Seriously, Self Pity - we need a divorce, bitch.
I need to let go and let God. Then this too shall pass. I’ll become a mother-fucking (yep - self-fucking) super-hero single-mom who is both woman and man, nurturer and provider all-in-one. Two jobs. A vibrator, and Star Trek: Discovery, where the black female Commander Michael Burnham rocks a pixie ‘do, kicks ass, and takes a man’s name. I can get off to that.
As long as I can survive this fucking self pity (sign the papers!), I think I’ll be all right.
Break-up number five. Let’s go.
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