I’m the original glutton for punishment. It’s my worst quality. I have no choice but to take responsibility for it because it’s common knowledge amongst everyone who knows and loves me. Hell, even my enemies know I’m far better at hurting myself than they are.
I always see the writing on the wall… I just don’t read the words.
I was at work on Friday afternoon when a text came buzzing into the phone I’d tucked into my bra. His tone is different and my heart races and breaks at the same time. I miss him so much at this point that it’s a dull ache. I’m also irritated enough to snap because of the instant smile it puts on my face. It’s a horrible thing to be waiting for the message that destroys all the progress you’ve made in one split second.
Why. Why, indeed. How? would also be an appropriate question; since our conversations revolve around the weather and football. I’ve been swallowing my broken heart for the most mundane of messages. Finally able to miss him without being upset about it.
And here he is. Back. Getting an eyeful because I’m just mad enough to say the things I’ve been doing my best to swallow.
J- Then tell me you miss me. I can’t be naked with you one second and talking about the weather in the next instance.
Silence. He falls asleep when things get honest and I’m waiting for answers. My heart is back in my throat and he still isn’t saying the words I want him to. The only thing that’s changed is that he’s reading about how much it dented me.
For the record, it’s a really mixed blessing to have the man you crave, read your blog. I absolutely have exploited them with it, I have written a man into my sheets and I have burned a few at the stake when things ended poorly. It takes a VERY brave man to roll with it, especially when I’m furious. The smartest men who were reading whilst seeing me, have exploited the fact that they could have personalized porn written about themselves if they played their cards right. I’m a lot of fun when you leave me inspired and wordy.
Ohhhh but when you break my heart, I’m pretty damn sad about it and they feel awfully guilty when they continue to read after things are over.
You’re reading my journal.
If you hurt me, chances are good that I wont have you riding in on a white horse. When you take my favorite dick away? I’m not really going to ramble on and on about it anymore.
You’re going to read about my hurt feelings and the regret I have for being so stupid to do something a second time that hurt like hell the first.
You’re going to read about how disappointed I was to find out you had a girlfriend you didn’t mention. The girlfriend you still have.
I can’t stop you from reading, but I can’t make you feel better about it either.
We can text about weather and you can avoid my questions, but I suggest you read at your own risk. I love you, but I also wouldn’t feel bad if you felt as bad as I have.
Frankly, nothing inspires me to have swing-from-the-chandeliers-sex more than knowing you’ll be reading about it, so maybe thanks are in order?