Let me tell you about owning a muscle car.

Let me just preface this by saying that the only thing that I would give up my car for is my girlfriend or a lemming army armed with tiny little bazookas and molotov cocktails. I’m not talking a small lemming army either, I’m talking, walk across the border and take a piss on the lawn of the White House with one hundred thousand lemmings behind me.

Last year, on New Year’s, I bought a Dodge Charger RT, brand spankin’ new, V8 engine that screams glory and hell fire and death to infidels. No seriously, you rev the engine and you can hear George W. Bush’s wet dreams.

But since that time, I’ve learned a lot that comes with driving a car like this. Mostly like…

1. You will ALWAYS be pulled over. Always. ALWAYS.

You know those hot girls who can’t step into the club without every rampaging chucklefuck within a seventy mile radius trying to talk to her, get up in her face, and grab her ass?

That’s now your car, and every single police officer who has a speed trap in your area who has spent the last year and a half pulling over shithead generic Japanese mundanemobiles realizes that there’s fresh meat on the market. Pretty soon, you can’t go five kilometers over the speed limit going past a trap without seeing flashing lights in the rearview, and then you end up having to entertain a conversation about every single possible traffic violation you could have possibly committed since you were born.

The truth is, when you drive a car like this, you’re a target. I’m okay with that – I’ve grown to accept the attention, it’s a compliment, not an insult. But that being said, that doesn’t necessarily mean that’s how you react at first. At first, you become that dude who pulls up beside cops at the light, windows fully down, blasting Nickelback like an air raid siren, singing sexually inappropriate lyrics at a middle aged police officer who really, just wants to get home without hearing you scream about pink thongs at him ever again.

2. Everyone wants to race you. EVERYONE.

Having a muscle car is a romantic, sexy thing – it’s that car in the movies that always wins the races, always gets the girl. And of course, everyone wants to be a part of that story, even if they’re the douchefucks in the movie that get left sucking dust a thousand miles behind your tail lights. But it’s never like a movie – see, what will happen is much more subtle and infuriating than that. You’ll be driving along, going an even 60 K, wind at your face and rock music playing happily, delirious with joy. And then some fucker is going to come flying past you, going 90. And he’ll suddenly slow down. You’ll notice him, and be like, meh. Then he’ll wait for you to catch up and do it again. Forget the fact that revving your engine would be enough to blow his little car right off the road and into a forgiving ditch. Fuck you if you’re not going to race him – he and his Civic are a team goddamnit, and he demands your begrudging respect as he continues to race you without your consent or participation, and pretty soon, you realize that you’re actually in the middle of a one man race between some dude and his ego who you’ve apparently offended by simply being alive.

3. People expect you to know everything about cars.

So in my un-expert opinion, there’s two kinds of talented people when it comes to cars. There’s the people who know the cars in and out, and can build and rebuild and take apart and rebuild a car quicker than God can rebuild a chapel for homeless infant puppies. Then there are the people of gifted reflexes and abilities to see the holes in traffic and the way that the road develops, those people who have a certain kinship with the road.

As you can probably tell, I didn’t buy my car because I have an overwhelming need to rub my ass against something with more power than a minor Saudi king. I’m one of the people who has had, and will always have an undying love of the road. There’s something about putting four wheels on asphalt and heading out into the unknown that is oddly unsettling. When I was going through the roughest point in my life, my friends tried their best to help me, but I was always an introvert – I needed to get through it on my own, and the best way for me to do that was to get out and drive, and just drive and drive and drive. I love the road, in a way not unlike an old pirate might love the sea, with an awed reverence for the things that I’ve seen, the places I’ve been and where I’ve yet to go.

But I don’t know fuck all about cars.

I found this out not too long after I walked into a car parts place with a clear store front that showed the front of my car, looking for someone that could do some vinyl work for my car. As I walk upto the counter, the dude behind it whistles and asks me what kind of engine it is. I reply politely, “5.7”. Before I can even open my mouth again to ask him a further question, he begins to go on a massive tirade, which may have very well been in a different language because I’m pretty sure half of what he said were less car parts and more so Iraqi slang terms for the word “vagina.”

And as you stand there, in numb silence, trying to figure out a way to best extricate yourself from that situation, he gives you a conspiratorial little wink and proceeds to give you perhaps the toughest exam on every single part of your car and of every car in your make since 1502. Eventually, when both of you are fully aware of your horrifying ignorance with everything to do with car parts when you say, “I don’t know about that alternating carboration metallurbaration stuff, but I sure do like that fuckin’ spoiler”, and “Yeah, I’m going to super charge the fuck out of that car soon, as long as I find a cape big enough”, you’ll leave feeling like a jackass for disappointing someone you don’t even know.

4. The muscle car wars.

So my girlfriend didn’t really understand this when I told her, and I don’t really understand it myself. Well, I understand some of the history behind it, but I don’t understand it in the same way that I don’t understand that Barney was on crack cocaine the entire time that he was singing to me as a child. Not because I’m not capable of understanding it, but because I feel that it’s so astronomically stupid that I don’t want to know because it makes me feel better to not have that information in my head, kind of like an infectious tumor in my fucking nutsack. That’s what this argument is, a sperm attacking tumor, fucking up your precious boys.

The story goes like this – if you’ve got a muscle car, that must mean you’re a ___________ man, and that’s all you are. If you’ve got a Mustang, that means you’re a Ford man, and Ford men hate Chevy men more than they hate Al Qaeda. And if you’re Al Qaeda and you don’t hate anyone from America yet, then buy a Dodge and watch as you suddenly apparently are expected to passionately despise the very existence of every other muscle car on the face of the earth.

Now I can’t be like that. The first car I fell in love with was the Chevy Corvette, and that’s still my dream car. Since then, I’ve only ever loved one kind of car – big engine, big power, straightaway demons that fly like bats out of hell when you put them on a straight line, cars that power out of turns like they’re chasing the air itself.

I still remember the day that I saw the ZR1 in action. I don’t give a fuck who says what – that car is majesty on wheels, grace on pistons, sex in vehicle form. I wanted that car when I saw it. I wanted to conquer corners, dominate asphalt, ragefuck the very air itself. 

That’s why I love muscle cars – they’re built for speed, no qualms or backing down, no excuses. Just straight up speed, and brutal raw speed at that. So how could I get angry when I found out that there was a 1000 hp Mustang out there? You want to know what my first thought was when I found that out?

“I wonder if my car can do that.”

The truth is, speed is a universal language. Anybody can fall in love with it, and it’s a car that’s made for the driver, someone who wants to put those four wheels on the pavement and just drive.

5. Fuckknuckles who think that a muscle car is a ticket for sex. 

Instead, I see a constant, enduring line of cockstraps and penisgarglers commenting on how “how much pussy I must get.” Why yes sir, there has been a large number of cats that have been padding through the general area around my place of residence recently. Not only that, this car attracts so much pussy that the cats themselves are mating with bats to produce catbats with wings so that they can throw themselves at me with reckless winged abandon. I’m actually scooping cats off my stoop with a shovel, and beating them away with hands filled with more cats. There’s so much pussy that I don’t know what to do with them all.

Truthfully, the reason this annoys me is because it’s by and large the most common problem on this whole list. It’s understandable – you walk into a movie theater, and you’re blown away when the only character in Fast Five who doesn’t fit the bill for a casting call for Brokeback Mountain 2 is driving an American muscle car and has muscles on top of his muscles on top of his muscles. In fact, we’re programmed from a young age, as boys, to equate muscles with sex. It’s stuck in our brain – if we have good bodies, women will like us, because really, if we have nice bodies and women don’t like us, it means that we’re horrible jackasses with not a single possible redeeming factor other than the ability to move our pecs without touching them.

Likewise, we’re taught from a young age that muscle cars spell sex. Think about it – you’re a young, impressionable boy and you walk into a movie theater and the main character is driving a raging angry muscle car. The average movie is what, 120 minutes or so? Two hours? How long does it take the hot girl in the movie and the main character to bone? If recent movies are any indication, they’re boning in the car, on the car and on the ground outside the car by the five minute mark. That means, as a young, shitheaded kid, you’re taught that within ten minutes tops of presenting your car to the general area of any area with a large amount of females, every woman within visual distance of their car should instantly cream their panties and throw them at your car. Every single fucking movie representation of muscle cars winds up like a softcore porno with less soft Latino music and more Metallica screaming.

That’s the problem. So when I meet some new dude who’s been a wrist jockey for the past few months, and he sees my car, you can practically see the cogs in his brain turning as he stares at me accusingly, as if I’m beating the women away from my dick right there in front of him, with my dick. Let me be the one to fuck this mindset up for good then – this doesn’t happen. Do I get stared at? Yes. But do I get approached? Once every two or three months maybe. Do I get a girl who just straight up comes onto me with the force of a small sex tornado? No. NO.

NO.

That doesn’t happen in real life. It takes time to build a relationship and have a healthy sexual relationship that doesn’t involve an immediate paralyzing fear of commitment issues for me anyway, what the fuck would I do with a horde of women?

I’d rather have the fucking lemmings.

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The Man You Shouldn’t Want.

(Link NSFW) http://www.imboycrazy.com/2011/12/reader-submission-the-man-we-want-the-man-we-shouldn’t-want/

You lay there, breathing heavily, your chest rising and falling and you swallow, feeling parched. She is quiet, and you know she’s too quiet, but at this point you’ve stopped caring. You’re tired of trying to figure out her figuring out you figuring out her figuring out you. What used to be wonderful and happy, is now just a complicated game of who is going to figure out the other person first, and you’re just tired of playing this game over and over again. You’re tired of getting your heart broken, so you stop trying.

You don’t mean to – you never mean to. You want to trust again, you want to give your all to someone and have the life that you always wanted to, the life that you always dreamed about. But she’s never asked about your dreams. You’re always the one who has to come up with the information, and although she seems interested in finding out who you are, she never asks. And you feel guilty about making her feel guilty for such a small thing, because maybe she just feels guilty about making you talk about your past, what you want, and what you need. Maybe she’s tired of hearing about your ex and how your ex girlfriend broke your heart in the clutch, and how it’s changed you. Maybe she’s tired about hearing about how hard it is for you to talk to her, how hard it is for you to open up again when you think that it’s all going to shit in the end anyway. Maybe, maybe, maybe. So you just don’t say anything, and the silences get longer.

And before you know it, the seconds tick by and she’s staring at you and you’re staring off into the distance, quiet and reserved, not sure what to do. You’re tired of giving up information about yourself, the things that you’ve always dreamed about and wanted, without her asking about it, so you begin to close up. She’s something different now, something different than what she had been in the very beginning when you were first getting to know each other and she seemed to want you for who you are, the man that you presented to her, instead of the novelty of it all. And you realize that inbetween it all, guilt has seeped in, regret and mistrust, and you’re not sure what to make of that.

You reach over and play with her hair, hoping that maybe she’ll be sparked to ask something, ask anything, ask for the world so you can give her the universe, but she simply places her hand on your face and kisses you. And you’re wondering why you’re here, laying in this bed with yet another girl that you’re going to regret when she’s had her fill of you, and you’re not sure how to answer yourself. For all your brilliance and argumentative nature, the one person you always lose an argument to is yourself.

You’re a smart man, you’re something that no girl should ever pass up on. You’re pretty decent looking, you think fast on your feet, you’re often humourous and sometimes sarcastic. You’re loyal to a fault, and you give a hundred and ten percent of you in every relationship – but you’re starting to realize that you should only have to give fifty percent, and giving a hundred and ten is only a license to make the other person not have to give anything at all.

So you shift over, and now you’re laying inbetween her legs, and she wraps her legs around you and pulls you inside her, and closes her eyes. And you wonder what she’s thinking of, and then you wonder if she’s wondering about what you’re thinking of. All you want is a family and a wife that loves you just as much as you love her, but you’re stuck always doing it by yourself. Always, always always, doing it by yourself. Even as you move inside her, you wonder if she’ll text you, if she’ll call you, what she’ll do. If you text her, will she respond even in the same day? Or will she just respond to get you back in her bed again, or maybe not call you at all because your position has already been filled?

Maybe, just maybe, she’s just as afraid of being hurt as you are, and all you are, are bad news. You’re not safe. You’ve been hurt too much and you’re too much at risk for being an asshole too. You’ve been torn apart and scarred, and everybody knows from a young age that young men with scars are the most dangerous kind of men. But you’re not like that, and you want her to know that, you want her to see that you’re the kind of guy that she’s always been waiting for, the kind of guy that any girl would kill for, the kind of guy that any girl wants to die for. But instead, you just close your mouth, close your mind, and kiss her mouth, and hope that one day she’ll open up to you, and share more than just her bed.

And so when it’s over, you lie in bed for a few seconds, and you’re about to cuddle her and you remember one of the first things that she told you months and months ago, back when you first met. That she doesn’t like cuddling. You remember everything that she’s ever told you, all her likes and dislikes, because it’s important to her so it’s important to you too. So you know if you cuddle her, she’s going to feel uncomfortable. Quietly, you get out of bed and get her a glass of water, and come back to bed, finding her pensive and distant. Suddenly she looks at you, and she looks like she’s going to say something.

And you close your eyes, waiting for her to finally open up to you, waiting for something more than skin deep, waiting for the relationship that you both seem to keep hinting at. Waiting for the spark to turn into an open flame, a burst of red in the otherwise gray life that you both are leading, something, anything.

You want the girl that she used to be, and she wants the man that you’re going to be. You want the girl that stayed up till three o clock online on Facebook talking to you, trying to find out how such a good guy can’t get a girlfriend, and not concluding that something was wrong with him, or that he was just pretending to be a good guy. You want the girl that wanted to be with you to understand you for the guy that you are now, not just for who you want to be and who you used to be. You want the girl who was about to uncover a grand treasure – you – hidden in plain sight for other girls. You want the girl who was about to take you off the market for good, and make every single other girl jealous on the opportunity that they missed in you. And she wants the guy that you claim to be, the guy that gives and gives and gives it all and never asks for anything back. Is it selfish to say, that you would give and give and give it all and never ask for anything back, but still want to not have to ask? Because you’re a realist – you’ve had relationships that have ended in massive wrecks, and you know that even though you don’t ask, you still need something, anything. And then you realize that you haven’t asked her for more, and that’s exactly what started your downward spiral in the first place, and worse still, you need her to help you out of it – to help you fix this relationship and turn it into something real, something amazing, something that the whole world has been wanting ever since we figured out that our genitalia was connected to the matters of the heart, but you just can’t find the fucking words to tell her how you feel, tell her that you need her to fix this. Tell her that you both need to fix this, not just you, because if it’s just you, then it’s always going to be just you. And that you shouldn’t have to ask her, but unless one of you asks something, it’s the relationship that’s getting axed.

But worse still – you don’t even know if that’s what she wants. You guys have talked, yes. She showed interest in you, yes. But now you’re together, now you’re in her bed, or in yours, and it seems that you’ve hit a plateau on her feelings. Maybe she’s just emotionless – but that’s not true, because she showed so much more emotion before. So you have to conclude that she just doesn’t care, and you don’t want to make an ass of yourself for trying to explain this entire essay of feelings to her, because if you do, then not would she still not care, but she might also conclude you’re a clingy freak, and nothing says unmanly like being a clingy freak. You’re a man, aren’t you?

And somewhere, trying to cross back and forth and let that spark turn into an open flame, between your ego and her pensive nature, staring into her eyes, and you into hers, and both being lost in some other plane of existence, you realize that the true problem isn’t that you’re not sure how to go about asking for love, it’s that firstly, you’re not sure that you should have to, and secondly, you’re not sure if she wants that from you. And as she pulls her panties on and gets ready to leave, you’re thinking that if you open your mouth, you’ll ruin this too. So you shut it. And you don’t text. You don’t call, you don’t do anything. And your heart shuts down, because you’re afraid of ruining it or getting hurt, and those two things seem like the only two possible outcomes from this ridiculous situation, and you’re still not sure of how you got here again.

In another realm, in another dimension, in some other alternative universe, she is the girl that you’ve always wanted and needed. Her lips are to die for, her eyes mesmerize you, and her hands hold yours tenderly, rocking back and forth when you’re inside her. She plays with your fingers as if they’re the most interesting thing in the world when you’re shopping, and you don’t even mind shopping anymore because she’s being her when she’s with you, and you love her. And just being with her, seeing the real her, all the time, is all you could ever want. In another life, you run your hands through your hair and then you recline in her lap, and she plays with your hair, running her fingernails across the back of your neck and ears, and you doze off happily. Somewhere else, in another time, you never let guilt and games and plays and mistrust and lack of effort ruin the spark.

But right here, right now, you’re trying to light a match on a windy beach in the pouring rain. And she’s standing right there, and in your eyes, she’s refusing to help you at all.

And so you bring her close before she puts on her bra, and you kiss her navel, hoping that something will change in the next thirty seconds that will bring the two lives together, bring your two lives together. And she looks at her phone, and bites her lip, and pulls off her panties and jumps back into bed again, not even realizing what you were trying to do. Thinking that you just want sex. So you’re mad. And you’ll fuck her hard, you’ll clench the headboard under your hand so hard that your knuckles will actually pop. If she wants sex, then sex is what she’ll get, and you both respond viciously to one another, nipping and biting, angry at each other for not loving, not giving, not asking. Somewhere between biting at her lip and wrapping your arms around her and burying your head in her neck, you’ll realize that this is the death of your relationship.

You aren’t making love to celebrate love.

You’re fucking at a funeral.

And later on, she’ll tell her friends how amazing sex it was, and how you just turned animalistic out of nowhere, but how unreliable you are. She’ll wonder at why you’re not texting, why you’re not calling, and slowly, she’ll start thinking that you’re nothing different from any other guy, that you’re just another asshole who wanted to fuck her and leave her.

Later on, much later down the road, after the hearts have already been broken, after you’ve both taken something perfect and destroyed it, she’ll look at you and think that you’re the man that she wants, but shouldn’t want. And you’ll be a footnote in her love story, until she finds another guy and the stars happen to line up perfectly and they both get caught with their guard down. All she’ll remember you for is being another part of that broken road, an emotionless bloodsucking vampire. Maybe if she knew that you had been thinking about names for your kids together at one point in the relationship, maybe if she knew about how much you liked to draw her but you never could draw her just the perfect way that she actually was, maybe if she had read one of the things, just one of the many, many things that you had written about her, but kept to yourself because you were embarrassed about how much you liked her. Maybe if she knew that you too, wanted to travel the world, and that you were thinking of maybe travelling with her, visiting Spain, visiting islands in the Caribbean, laying under a night of stars and not ruining it with sex – just laying together, looking up at the warm sky and talking, random, stupid thoughts that only you two could ever talk about and be happy talking about it.

And as she puts her panties again and again, you’ll wonder what you’re doing. But you already know what you’re doing, and you already know why you won’t stop – because you still have hope. Hope that maybe this will change, hope that maybe this spark will flare up. And that one tiny bit of hope is worth more than all the misgivings in the world. So you continue living your life, knowing that love isn’t there, and you see the writing on the wall, but refuse to read it.

In the end, you’re just another asshole. In the end, she’s just another bitch. In the end, both of your friends hear two different stories about how emotionless and horrible you both were. In the end, what should have been two people bringing out the best in each other, you became two people who brought out the worst in each other.

In the end, there is nothing but an end.

– Ghost.

“And I, can’t do this by myself – all of these problems, they’re all in your head. And I can’t be somebody else – you took something perfect, and painted it red.”

– Daniel Merriweather, “Red” 

Broken.

I’m gingerly sweeping up broken glass into a dustpan. Holding the shards by my fingertips. Trying not to hold on too tightly lest they draw blood.
I’m looking at the pieces of my failed relationships.

I’ve been broken for so long and it took me this long to realize it. If asked to describe myself I would always say the same things, the right things. Funny, Smart, Caring, Generous. And while all of this is true it’s only partial. What I forgot to mention is that I laugh to cover up the fact that I’m uncomfortable, I make jokes to diffuse situations in which I feel threatened, I smile to make people think they have the upper hand and that I am harmless. Yeah, I’m smart. I over analyze everything and it destroys me. I always have to be 10 steps ahead. Not calculating, never – I’m just already thinking of getting my heart broken when we haven’t even met yet. I care too much. And I care about the wrong things. I love to come up with cute little euphemisms for how much I cannot be bothered to give one third of a fuck but the truth is, I lay in bed wondering what everyone thinks of me, who have I disappointed today, who will I disappoint tomorrow? I’m too generous. I give all of myself. At all times. To family, to friends, to lovers, to strangers, to the cute guy at the bar. But not enough to my teachers, to my parents or to the homeless on the street.

Do you know how devastating it is to be so sure of yourself, so positive you know yourself inside and out? Like the back of your hand. I have not once looked at the back of my hand long enough to memorize what it looks like. If you showed it to me in a picture I probably wouldn’t recognize it to be mine. When faced with all the facts about myself I didn’t recognize who I was.

What does this have to do with my failed relationships? Everything. It took me finally realizing some truths about myself to realize what went wrong.

Did I make a horrible mistake by leaving those men? Is it possible to find your soulmate and not even know it? Leave them and only see them for what they were only after it’s too late?

Naive. Insecure. Two words I would’ve never before added to the list of characteristics that describe me. Vision is always 20/20 in retrospect. I was too naive to recognize when a relationship wouldn’t or couldn’t work out. I was too insecure to even look. I took whatever I could get. But with insecurity comes doubt.

There was a lot of doubt with my first boyfriend. When he started to like me I doubted it was possible, when I started to like him I doubted it was for the right reasons. When we started to grow apart I doubted he would notice. When I finally ended it I doubted I made the right decision. When I went running back to him I doubted he’d take me back. When we got back together I doubted I made the right decision. When he finally broke up with me because I didn’t sleep with him one day I doubted he’d ever come to his senses. When I look back on that relationship I doubt it was ever really love.

I pour the shattered glass into its own little plastic bag so it doesn’t rip through the rest of the garbage. I tie it in a tight little knot and throw it away.

After that experience, I went numb. I compartmentalized all the painful memories and told myself I would move on and not let them affect me or any possible future relationships. I ended up doing the exact opposite.

I told myself I was free. I needed to take advantage. What I really was was clueless and vulnerable. So vulnerable. But I thought I was all powerful. I had had a boyfriend and he was long term and we had broken up and I was still alive. Where was my victory prize?

Another word. Instinctual. But I didn’t use it to my advantage although I should have. Having fun was more important. Proving to myself that I could have men falling at my feet was more important.

That’s when I met *Duke.

Duke was a co-worker. He was brash, cocky, arrogant and liked to make himself known as a huge player. Another thing about him, he wanted me. I wasn’t the slightest bit interested but the fact that someone who could supposedly have anyone he wanted chose me was too good of a stroke to my ego to pass up.

He took me home one day. He asked me what my plans for the future were. I replied “Moving out of this town. Moving to Toronto”. He said he wanted to spend the remainder of my time there together. I tried my best to sound non-commital. He leaned in under the false pretense of whispering something in my ear and kissed me. Not wanting to seem rude I kissed him back (!). Yes, this is how I think guys.

To this day I still think that was the worse mistake I’d ever made in my life.

The following week he invited himself over. He cooked for me. Somehow we ended up in bed.

I think it was then he thought he had me.

The next day he showed up at my door in a ratty old college hoodie and a sheepish grin. “My parents kicked me out. I have no place to stay. I really don’t want to be asking you this, believe me, but I have nowhere else to go…if you say no though, I’ll understand”.

Caring. Generous. Naive. Vulnerable.

I said he could stay. I had my own place, we were already sleeping together. What harm could it do? “Only for a few weeks! Until you find somewhere else to stay!” My weak attempt to regain control. Too little, too late.

7 months later, Duke was still there. I supported us both on my part-time income because he couldn’t manage his own money. I paid rent, food, bills, everything. He talked me into buying him a new pair of leather shoes and making his car payments. He was a master manipulator and although my friends had called it from day one, I was still blind. I continued to surpress my instincts.

My sporadic attempts to take back my life were pathetic at best. I insisted we were most definitely not a couple. Just roomates who slept together. But when guys asked me out, I said I “couldn’t”. I couldn’t bear hooking up with someone else, knowing I’d have to go home to him.

I stopped wanting to sleep with him. I began to see right through his ‘act’ and it repulsed me. His smiles were actually hungry grins. His meek requests were really passive-aggressive. His chivalrous manner was just overbearing. He needed it every day and every day it felt like I was throwing a piece of myself away.

To avoid it altogether I began pretending I wasn’t tired long after he’d retired to the bedroom. I stopped sleeping. I decended into deep depression. I fretted over bills, the state of the house, the state of my life. What had I done? Who was this man I let come into my home and completely take advantage of me in every way? Anxiety was my new drug. I took a dose every night before I finally succumbed to a fitful sleep and every morning before I dragged myself to a job that I loathed. I began having panic attacks. I couldn’t work.

I made the mistake of venting to a friend one day via text. I said something about how frusterated I was about how he seemed to be able to control every aspect of my life without even trying; we had recently had a fight over me being friends with a girl he didn’t approve of. I texted *Jen, “What a dickbag! Not only can I not sleep with who I want, but I can’t even be friends with who I want either?!”

He “accidently” stumbled upon the text and confronted me about it. He put on a show of how hurt he was. He said he’d never cried so hard in his life. His eyes were dry. Not being able to bear the guilt I walked away. Rather than assert myself I chose to roam the streets, alone after dark, my body racked with sobs.

Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak. WEAK.

It was only after he had taken everything I had; physically, emotionally, socially, mentally, financially. Everything. Had his fill and drunk with satisfaction, that I was finally able to muster the courage to kick him out.

By then I had quit my job and money was low. Rent was due and my credit card was maxed out. A far cry from the life he’d found me with 7 months prior. He promised to pay me back for my good deed. He paid rent that month and disappeared. He still owes me $500.

I found out from a friend a few months after Duke and I had ceased all contact that his  “new” girlfriend had just given birth.

He was cheating on me the whole time.

I make myself numb to the pain of those breakups. I’m scared if I allow myself to feel the pain, I’ll open the floodgates. And I won’t be able to stop it. And what then?

I’ve moved on. This is my new life now. And I’m no longer afraid. I’ve stopped handling my own memories with a careful hand and yes I’ve been cut a few times but those wounds will heal. I’ve opened the floodgates and I feel refreshed.

I will no longer worry what a person would think about this upon first meeting them. And maybe a word spoken a certain way or a specific gesture won’t bring me back to that apartment filled with dread and the smell of Duke’s cologne. Or maybe it will and I’ll smile and remember the lesson I’ve learnt.

Either way I have a better idea of who I am now.

I’m still Funny, Smart, Caring and Generous. But I can also be Naive, Insecure, Clueless, Vulnerable, Instinctual and Weak.

I was Broken, but that’ll soon change.

*Names have been changed. And yes I really chose the name that sounded the most like “Douche”. Yep.

*The parts in bold are from something I found in my documents that I had written about a year ago. I used it as sort of the “backbone” to this post.