I was going to make a post about this most recent run of the mill idiotic guy who looked like if Ron from Harry Potter was a Star Wars Bounty Hunter that I have lovingly referred to as Weasley Fett in texts to my friend about him but after I sat and thought, I don’t really want to tell any more of the same stories about me being confused and putting on my investigator cap to uncover the clues on whether I’m dealing with a savant or a fuckboy?
It’s always a fuckboy.
And even staring directly at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel will eventually give you a headache if you don’t look away. I’ve looked at every inch of this relationship trainwreck and I fully know the driver of the clown car is me. As fun as the ridiculous details of these encounters once were to experience I’m no longer doing it for science because I truly have the math now.
Fuckgirls attract fuckboys. But so do Goodie two-shoes. And Nut jobs. And Vampires.
Its officially been one year. A full year. I can’t think back another full year like this one- I’ve gotten close before and celebrated the milestones although not consecutively. I was impressed with myself at 2 weeks and at 90 days- six months and 9, I’ve been terrified and uncertain and I have to say all around, I actually feel good. Perhaps there’s more to me than, well, fuckboys.
My body is completely a shambles and falling apart and no, I haven’t quite nailed quitting smoking yet, its totally on my to do list in these final transitional months, but I feel good because my identity isn’t tied any longer to whoever it is I might be shagging. Not just because I’m not actually doing that with anyone- yay to me for the first full year ever since I was 16 of not having done so, but this breather has given me a chance to actually be…well, me.
Of course I’ve gone on dates and had some doozies in there but I’ve recently stopped being diminished or even bothered by them. I’m really fascinated with my own fat rolls if I’m honest and why only one of my ankles likes to swell and completely forgetting until I am physically on a beach that I haven’t shaved my pits in ages. Nothing’s perfect, nobody either, blah blah blah we know but writing all of this- having lived all of this and finally feeling like I don’t need to figure the reasons why out anymore- feels good. To live long enough to have earned the right to say bah!
I told my friend I might go another whole year who knows but if your life is full enough in all honesty, why would one even care?
Bah!
Olives are too good and there’s so many shows and movies- beaches that haven’t yet held me, kaftans and sunshine and comics and geez, more tattoos. I’ve been worried that I didn’t have anything left interesting to write about anymore, hating me and hating the men I dealt with was a endless trough or so it seemed.
Bah!
Even kissing Halle Berry must get boring after a while. Nothing is forever, I’m certainly not, and while I am here I have had it up to my skull with pining, retelling, dissecting and punishing me for all the fucking fuckboys like flies I have attracted.
Who cares?
Bah!
Maybe I’ll never write another thing.
Maybe I don’t have to.
I’ve said enough.
See, I’ve learned.
My Mind, My Mood, My delicately poisoned pen... 