Yeah? Really? Nope. That’s about enough of that.
Boyfriend= babysitting in my book, and I’m fresh out of baby hunger. I love that my kids can ride a bike next to me, not to mention go to the bathroom alone.
I have enough details in my own life to manage, I don’t need to take care of anyone else. I have a wicked little dog habit. I love them… enough that I have three of them. FML.
I can’t handle dirty floors or dirty sheets. No. I’ll kill myself vacuuming and changing my sheets if need be. I know it’s worth it. I want things just so. I’m old enough to have what I want because I’m the one funding this party.
When I consider what makes me happy, a drunk boyfriend never makes the list. My bad? Sorry. Peace out- take care- etc.
I miss my boys, Super Dad & Super Uncle. I finally had a day with my little sister. I’m wiggling my toes back into the sand.
I move mountains, make miracles and beat the odds, every day.
But I’m done dating, y’all. I’m done being set up. I’m done with all of it. DONE. Please. If you love me? You’ll stop trying to help.
I love my male friends. They make me laugh, they look out for me and they are all a bunch of drinking, smoking, tail-chasing rockstars. What on earth posesses any woman to think that there’s some mythical different man searching for her?
They are all the same.
Period.
They all lie if they need to. They all look, every day… and if given the opportunity? They cheat.
I’m not interested in being lied to or cheated on. I’m all set, thanks.
I talked about it with a dear friend of mine. She’s pledging celibacy… which both appeals to and horrifies me at the same time.
I prefer to look at them as a resource. At my disposal, much like the places you can have your car lubed. Hell those boys even vacuum.
Much like the dreaded trip to Walmart occasionally for laundry detergent and toilet paper? I have a little black book for a reason.
No cooking. No waiting on him. No clean up. No family dinners or talks of captivity and such.
An ala-cart boyfriend… for the perfect salad bar girlfriend.
