I don’t want to write today. I want to talk. I want to say it out loud. I want to fucking yell it at my walls. I Miss You. Where Are You. I’m Sorry. Come Here.
I made a mistake. And it makes me feel a little ill to write that but it comes out anyway. I don’t know the extent of it. Maybe a month maybe three. Maybe 2 years I don’t know I DON’T KNOW. But I know I acted too quickly. And I know I hurt you and you are too fucking dense to understand why and maybe now you get it and now it’s too late to get anything and I’m stuck here walking outside in the heat breathless fucking Breathless because it’s easier not to breathe than it is to cry in public. Everything. It’s in everything. How can I still be sad about this. About a person I have absolutely no connection to, no social media, no photos, no internet searching, no text history to pull up and stare at and think about and interpret a hundred different ways depending on my mood. Nothing. I have nothing but a few emails and one phone call that says everything and nothing at all because I was too dumb to let it just go straight to fucking voicemail. Like a normal fucking woman who screens phone calls because men don’t know how to say shit. Haven’t I watched enough episodes of Sex and the City in one lifetime? NEVER PICK UP THE PHONE. I feel like I’m conditioned to the drunk dial lifestyle of picking up at 4am and listening to J or A or even K go off on all the many things they think of me from Meaningless Whore to Love of Their Lives all of which might just lead to a little sex next time someone’s in town. 11:58AM on a Wednesday?? SCREEN THAT SHIT YOU IDIOT. Screen and wait like 4 days to journal and freak out and lose your goddam shit then tie it all back together after a long walk in the heat and summer rain before even thinking of making contact. I should know better. Then again so should he.
I’ve been hoping to meet more trustworthy men. That seems like the solution, right? Isn’t that it. Just like, hey, shy bartender, you seem safe, be a temporary emotional replacement while I get set up for a minute. Or yo, guy who seems like he wants to open up to me OH NO FUCK NO NO NOT YOU. I forgot about those. I also forgot how much everyone lies. All the time. Like they have no idea how obvious their lying is. Am I the only person who laughs when men say shit that’s just not true? Or who smirks at something I’m supposed to be buying? I should know this, A was a liar. But he told me he was up front so I just knew when to acknowledge a lie, when to know to whom he was lying and about what, and when to just smile and want to believe what he was saying because I knew his intentions. But he, too, was safe. So I didn’t care. None of these crafty motherfuckers are trustworthy. At all. It’s been 2 months. How does it take me more than 2 months to link up with someone enough to even just let them see my tits. I have to post a fucking censored version on Instagram because no one in my life except the one I can’t send it to is deserving of a private text and even he doesn’t get one until he meets them in person. Standard titpic rules. Otherwise you’re a man I’ll never sleep with and I’m just fucking with you. Oh yeah, sorry RD, that was pretty mean. He was adorable I was still mad at A, casualty of a shitty breakup. Good photographer though, also evidenced by his beautiful cockshots, best of luck to him.
Hey wasn’t RD a real sweetheart? Yeah he was. Probably why I wouldn’t go out with him. Before I learned how to like nice men. Well. Isn’t that lovely. Not like I can compare posting innocent Dickpics on Instagram to leaving town when I fall in love with someone I shouldn’t be with anyway. Just because they’re both good guys. Just means I have to try a little harder not to scare away all those shy bartenders. BTW how'd that motherfucker find my website?? Note to self: Learn How To Lie.