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My Fucked Up College Life

Did you ever picture your college life as a kid? Did you sit there, dreaming about how professional and put-together and fun-loving you’d become? Did you imagine how many friends you’d have, how your hair would become all long and shiny and straight, how you’d coast through classes on your way to a fabulous job?

Did you imagine having a threesome with your ex-boyfriend and current girlfriend?

My life is fucked. Because the only one of those scenarios that is true is the last, and like just about everything, I screwed it up. How do you screw up a threesome? You enjoy everything halfway, and then watch your girlfriend and ex-boyfriend make out and suddenly become so sad that you want to burst into tears and so mad that you want to punch them both in the face for kissing the other person. And then you get all quiet until they think you’re done so you can disappear into the bathroom and start sobbing hysterically (while listening to them continue). Finally, when your shirt is covered in snot and tears you let your ex come into the room to comfort you (but not your girlfriend). And then your brain hurls every reason you are wrong about everything in your face. And it sucks.

My life is fucked. How did this all happen? How did an innocent trip to visit me in my college town become a friendship between my boyfriend and girlfriend, and then become fucking? Why did they have to get drunk like that, and why did my sober-self have to agree to a threesome that had “bad idea” written all over it? How did I end up in this fucked up place?

I just want to fast-forward through this point in my life—the point where I can’t stay happy through a whole day, where I’ve distanced myself from most of my friends, where what I want and what is possible are two separate things. The worst part is how tired I am of trying to hide how unhappy I am to my girlfriend—but it’s not like I can be completely open all the time because all it will do is make her sad and make me angry. So I’m stuck in my feelings, at least until I can go home for the weekend and visit old friends that make me feel like my old self.

When I was in high school, and went through my second major depressive episode, I realized that college wasn’t going to look like what I imagined as a kid. I realized that every few years I was going to have to suffer through my oppressive depression and that my version of happiness would never be quite as simple as other peoples’. I realized that this depression would turn me into someone self-centered and pessimistic and angry, and that all I could do would be to look for the symptoms and try to catch it early.

But even in that scenario, I never pictured a threesome.


Sex, Feelings, and How They Fuck Up Your Mind

Sex is a funny thing. It’s a conversation without words, a dance to music that is only playing in you, your mind and body. There is so much tied to it: romance, self-esteem, reputations, possible diseases and pregnancy, sexual frustrations, trust, and a chance to escape your life and live in that moment. But life is funny too; life catches up to you.

My first time was not what I thought it would be. I thought I would put more thought into it, for starters. I thought it’d be about love, about trust, about commitment and security and the relationship I had with the other person. But nah, it was with some guy I didn’t really care about, who didn’t really care about me, and it was on some squeaky futon and I ended up being on top. It wasn’t painful, physically or emotionally; it was just sex, which was what I wanted. See, before that I had been in my first real, serious relationship with a guy I loved who loved me. I thought that Charles and I would be together for years, he thought we’d someday get married. That was the relationship I was supposed to lose my virginity in, according to all the books and movies. So I wanted to do it, I trusted him, I loved him, I was a horny teenager. All signs pointed towards yes, except him: he said no. He didn’t want to have sex, he didn’t want to hold my hand or kiss me or put a label on our relationship. So I said fine. And then I picked the first cute guy that came along and let him do the job. And even though that sounds terrible, I don’t regret it. Sex the first time is awkward and bad no matter who it is with, where it happens, or why it happens. At least that’s what me, and every other woman I’ve talked to think.

When I really had that “first time” was four months later, in the arms of a man I loved who loved me. He taught me what sex really is, why some people call it “making love”. (Personally, that phrase makes me gag, but I’ll use it anyway this time.) He made me feel special, beautiful, strong but vulnerable in the best sense, and I had never felt closer to another human being than I did to him. It wasn’t just sex with him, it was letting our souls connect when words wouldn’t suffice.

But not all my sex experiences have been good. Luckily, I haven’t had any extreme bad times, but when it’s bad, it’s bad. Sex involves so many complex emotions, especially for women, and once they catch up with you, there’s nothing you can do but ride them out. The first time I had a bad experience it was with the same person I was with in the above paragraph. It wasn’t necessarily about him, because he obviously treated me with respect and love. It was about me, it was about all of my experiences with sex before.

So why all the talk about sex? I had a discussion with my girlfriend a few nights ago about how sex can make you upset. We’ve both had this experience with each other, although it wasn’t necessarily about each other. Whenever I became upset, she didn’t really understand why, although she suspected that part of it was realizing I was in love with her (she totally called that one). Whenever she became upset, I suspected she was going through something similar in her head as I did a month or so before. It’s a flood of feelings about yourself and your attachment to the other person that completely overwhelms you; an immobilizing wave of emotions you can hardly understand and never knew existed. It’s a moment where all you want is the other person to hold you and tell you it’s going to be okay, even if that’s bullshit. Most guys do not really understand this, and some women don’t either. I’m not saying this happens to everyone, but it’s a lot more common in women than we may realize. And it’s different for every person—which is a big part of why it can be so scary.

Let me explain it a little more, and go back to the story of my first bad experience with emotions during sex. So me and then-boyfriend were getting all steamy, both totally into it. And then the actual sex part started happening. And it was great, there was nothing wrong with the position, or what he was doing or what I was doing. Nothing wrong with the relationship, nothing wrong with how I felt about him or how he felt about me. But it was my mind; my mind was all wrong. One moment I was there with him and the next it was like I was outside of myself, watching all of it happen to me. I was suddenly so detached from my body and the situation and I felt small…I was empty. I felt so removed and alone and just so completely sad. And I tried to push these feelings away, I tried to grit my teeth, go back to feeling pleasure and happiness and breathless with ecstasy…but no dice. Instead I got quiet, and just let it keep happening even though all I wanted was for it to stop.

Experience Number Two: It was a different guy, almost a year later. It was the first time we had slept together, and it was highly anticipated by us both. Everything else we had done had been totally hot, and so expectations were high….too high. It was all around a bad time. I had never set any sort of standards about the male anatomy before, but this was the experience that taught me the awful lesson of size mattering (so you’d better be good at other things if you know you’re not going to be good at the main event–I say this not to be an asshole, because no one can control the size of their dick, but to relay that this guy I was with was not good at any of the other stuff, either). Anyway, but apart the issues of anatomy, as soon as it started happening I felt wrong. Sick. I felt used, like a piece of meat for him feel up for the night, and toss away the next morning. I had no warmness in my heart for him, and only bitter hate for myself. I wanted so badly for this sex to just be sex, for it to be fun and meaningless like it was supposed to be for people my age in college. But instead it was me who felt meaningless, worthless, empty. Once again, I said nothing about how I felt, or how I wanted it to be over. I let him decide when he was done with me.

Experience Three: Different guy, a month later. This guy and I had come close to having sex so many different times, but he had never pressured me. I really was starting to like him, despite my reservations to keep things casual and not get attached. Once again, I wanted it all to mean nothing but harmless fun. Anyway, it was a Thursday night at a party. We both were a little drunk, we both knew it was going to happen. And it was great, actually. It was great sex and he was very sweet afterwords, holding me as he fell asleep. But I stayed awake, staring at the wall. As soon as the feelings of pleasure had faded, the same contempt for myself appeared. There was so much name calling in my head, “whore” “slut” “naive” “stupid” “reckless” “dirty”. I lied there, wishing those labels were not true, but feeling the pressure of them weigh on me nonetheless. My self-esteem was at a new low, I had been downgraded from a piece of meat to a shadow of a person who once had control over her life. I felt sorry for the guy sleeping next to me, because he was wasting his time fucking someone so unworthy of love or affection.

Empty is the one word I can use to sum up my experiences. Do I blame any of these people I’ve slept with for my experiences with them? No. I realize that all of these feelings I’ve had come from myself, because of myself. My self-esteem and emptiness are so tied up in my depression and I don’t expect any person to change that but me. Any all of these experiences have happened in different times, when I felt differently about myself than I do now. One thing I can say about my experience with my girlfriend about a month ago was that I felt overwhelmed with the realization that I loved her, would someday lose her, and that I was still seeing and loving my then-boyfriend Fred at the time. It was a mess of complicated feelings, but not once in that experience did I feel worthless or used.

I guess this is all to say that sex brings up a lot of emotions that we are not always prepared for, and that’s okay. It doesn’t make you weak for being vulnerable with your body and your mind around someone else, it doesn’t make you bad at sex or a bad partner to whoever you are with. It’s okay to be upset, to claim ownership over your body and what happens to it. It’s okay to get scared because you just let someone become close to you, closer than anyone has ever been before. I’m not saying that my experiences are the same as anyone else’s, but I’m sharing them because if someone out there has felt that way, I want them to know they don’t have to apologize for it. You are allowed to take up space and feel your feelings and ask someone to hold you if you need to be held. You are not a burden. You are worthy of love.

Sex can be simple, easy and painless like my first time. It can also be beautiful, vulnerable, and full of love. Those are the two experiences with sex that the world expects us to have, but that’s not always  realistic. As much as we may like to tell ourselves that sex is just a moment in time, it brings out the best and worst of our feelings about ourselves. Handling those feelings is difficult, but for me it was those tough experiences that taught me not only a lot about myself, but also the person I was/am with.

In a way, it was the other person holding me after moments like those that made me feel closer to them, closer than sex I’ve ever had.

A Rant Session, From Me To Me

Sometimes, when I write on here I write for all of you WordPress people reading. I sit and I try and think of things that will matter to you and help you throughout your week, month, maybe even your whole life. But not today, not this post. This post is for me. I need to figure some things out, and those things just aren’t going to be in a nice and neat format with conclusions and introductions and explanations. They are coming straight from my head onto the keyboard:


What the fuck was that? That conversation we had

You went from pulling the maid position, sweeping all of your feelings and reservations under the rug to the prosecutor, airing out all of the things wrong that I made wrong

But where was your evidence?

“Something has changed” “I don’t know what I want” “I just feel like we are different right now” All of this was sprinkled onto the fix-this-mess cake, only where was my fork? Where was my knife? If I’m going to devour this mess I need the tools sitting in your hands and you just aren’t handing them to me

Until, oh get this:

“I think maybe we should try an open relationship again or take a break, because I don’t want things to stay like this.”

WHAT???!?! I’m sorry, WHAT?!?!?!

I was expecting you to put the fork and knife in my hands, not stab it in my fucking brain!

How was this a solution? It was like bombing a building that had the heat on too high…if that fucker is too warm, turn it off or open a window or blast the air conditioning…don’t just blow the whole thing up! And this wasn’t any old building, this was my home. You were bombing my home, our home, because somehow the heat was turned up too high.

“I just didn’t expect you to fall in love with her.”

And you think I did? You think I thought to myself, “Gee, she’s nice, why don’t I just hand over my vulnerability to her on a silver platter and stir the pot in my relationship of two years to the point of spilling?” You think I want my life to be this complicated? You think I want to sort out my feelings like I do laundry every time I come home to you?

I didn’t force you, I didn’t ask for this, you offered it. You told me you could handle this; how do you expect me to react to “something has changed”?

I want to fix it. I want things to be okay, to have that comfortable ease back in our steps and to float through this moment in our relationship with confidence and support. But I don’t want to have to be forced to let you fuck other people or to rip our relationship apart to do that.

That’s another thing, the sex. Stop looking at me like that

Stop saying “It’s okay, it’s okay.” I KNOW it’s okay to say no, it’s MY body. Stop constantly putting your hands all over it and reaching in my pants and breathing hard on my neck when I’m hanging out with my friends or cooking dinner or trying to wash my goddamn hair. Why can’t you just let me come to you, so I can remember what it’s like NOT to feel like I owe you sex

Why does it have to matter so fucking much to you when I don’t want it? It’s not personal, it’s not that I don’t find you attractive or that I don’t love you or that I’ve suddenly become a celibate monk—

It’s that I’m going to be on my fucking period here soon! It’s that my head is somewhere else and my body feels far away and that you aren’t saying what you are really thinking to me, you are just wanting the sex to fix what I didn’t even know was broken….

Until that conversation. That fucking conversation.

If you won’t say what is wrong than I will. What is wrong is that you aren’t talking, not about your feelings, about your life, about what dreams you had last night or what conversations you had with your mom. And what is wrong with me? I got busy, I got my life in a bit of a windstorm but I like it, I like to mix it up now and then. So I’m sorry if I’m not as readily available as I once was. But even though our future is on hold and my dreams are on hold and my heart seems on hold you know what isn’t on hold? NOW. This moment.

I’m so happy, and I want to share it with you. So tell me how to fix it, and if you don’t know than figure it out. Because I miss you and love you and want to get back to that place we were in when we conquered the world together, if that is possible with these new circumstances.

That fucking conversation. It put silence where should have been words.

Once Upon A DoucheBag

As a person with depression, one thing I’ve always strived for is to be positive. Which is so much easier said than done, because let me tell you, when you’ve been depressed for months straight and hear someone say stuff like, “Oh, you can overcome anything if you just try hard enough.” “All of life’s struggles are blessings in disguise.” and my personal favorite “Just put your faith in Jesus and he will lead you in the right direction.”, you tend to be less than amused. People who have told me directly to “cheer up!” have seen my death look many a time, and can tell you it isn’t pretty. However, I like to believe this people are genuinely trying to help, rather than make me wish I had a baseball bat. See, positivity?

Ok, maybe that isn’t the best example. Despite my apprehension toward inspiration phrasing, though, I always try to make it a point to let others know I am there to listen, to lend a shoulder to cry on, and to tell them how truly great they are as people when they are having trouble believing that themselves. So to me, that’s positive. I know that most suffering makes us stronger, but I also know that after you find out you’re getting laid off or that your dad has cancer, that’s not exactly the thing you need to hear.

Anyway, so cynicism, while tempting, is rarely helpful. But lately I’ve been having some struggles in avoiding it….

Once Upon A Time

Once upon a time in a far away land that was known for its large meth and heroin addiction, a young mental health patient went to a high school and met this guy, Sir BlameALot. Blah blah blah, they got together, fell in love, and then broke up because they were both too screwed up to make any sort of legitimate relationship work. So the mental health patient decided to be with someone she did not love, but could give her what Sir BlameALot could not. Well that didn’t last, because this new guy, Sir SmokesALot dumped her on their one-month. But she was pretty okay with that, since she didn’t care much for him, anyway. So then our young patient learned that this fellow Lord FuckedMeOver, cared for her, and while she was struggling to slay the dragon of depression she called on him for aid. He fought by her side gallantly, professed his devotion to her, and then two weeks later was cast under a spell called, “It never happened”. So our mental patient was devastated, and tried desperately to find him a cure. But Lord FuckedMeOver quickly became transformed under the spell’s power and soon forgot that she ever existed. Sad and pissed off, our young mental patient went to a tavern with her friend Lady Let’sParty. Lady Let’sParty introduced the patient to her good friend King Petey, and quickly the two fell in love. For many ages our heroine and King Petey lived happily together, but then our mental patient was called into battle, where she would move far away into the land of Higher Education. The two vowed to continue loving each other though apart, and did. But in the new battle zone, the mental patient caught the vapid disease PlayTheField. Even with his love under such a different condition, King Petey still loved her. But because of the illness, our mental patient became ensnared in the clutches of two knights, Sir SmallerThanLife and the Duke of The Lumberjacks. Sir SmallerThanLife had convinced her he would be a dutiful friend and was kind at first, so due to the disease PlayTheField, she became infatuated. Soon after, though, while both had a terrible encounter with the Monster of Horniness, she realized he was a poor knight with terrible equipment and fighting skills. It didn’t even matter, though, because after their encounter with the monster he was never seen again. Then, with the Duke of The Lumberjacks, our patient was ensnared with his brave leadership and decency among the other lumberjacks who basically just wanted to show off their lumber. So for weeks the Duke showed her around the lumberyard and introduced her to all the guys, being a real decent lumberjack, and then as soon as our heroine defeated the Monster of Horniness with him, BAM! He vanished into the Forest of DoucheBag. So, amidst all the chaos, the young mental patient decides to retreat home from the land of Higher Education to rest. And as she is enjoying being amongst her friends again, she is courted by an old friend, Lord Ninja. Now I know what you’re thinking, “WHY CAN’T THEY JUST LEAVE THE STINKING GIRL ALONE?!?” But remember, she’s caught the disease PlayTheField, so now her love life is all fucked up. Our story ends with the young mental patient longing for the past happiness she had with King Petey (that’s now been poisoned by the disease…sort of), and deciding whether she is being cynical when she wonders if Lord Ninja will disappear into the forest of DoucheBag like the rest of them.

Anyway, to be continued.

So now you see my struggle. I don’t want to be the asshole here, or the helpless victim. But I’ve been royally screwed over so many times that I wonder if I have “Treat Me Like Shit” written on my forehead. How the hell am I supposed to trust people? Why do so many people see me as nothing? I certainly don’t see myself that way, and neither do my friends, family, or King Petey for that matter. At a part of the story that is so bleak, it is getting harder and harder to stay positive with my ideas of relationships.

But I guess that’s what the future is for. I remember reading one of those positive bullshit things on Pinterest that said: “Just because something ends doesn’t mean it never should’ve been. Remember, you lived, you learned, you grew and you moved on.”

Eh, I still like Eminem’s “Say fuck it before you kick the bucket, Life’s too short not to go for broke.”

The Perks of Being Scared Sh*tless

I haven’t written or checked the ol’ blog in a while, so here I am. And what do I have to say this time? A lot. About what? A lot. A lot of bullshit, probably, but ultimately things that matter such as:

-College. Have I mentioned that I leave next Tuesday?

-My last post. Someone actually read it.

-Long-distance relationships. Will we make it?

-Sex and pregnancy. It seems as if everyone is getting pregnant and it’s freaking me out.

-My last group therapy. *Sniffle sniff*

So, let’s begin. I move into my dorm next Wednesday, at about 8 or so in the morning. Not only will I probably be sleep deprived from insomnia and anxiety, but I will also be engaging in physically demanding work while a) trying not to have a complete freak out, and b) loving my parents while also hating my parents for being so old and clueless. And then, after my half of the matchbox-sized dorm room is filled with crap, my parents will leave me. Suddenly, that first day of preschool will become totally understandable again, as I try not to cry when my parents abandon me in a strange, foreign place. And then what? I unpack? I go out and try to make a friend? I hide under the covers?

At least I know I’m not alone. My high school friends are freaking out, too. Lately we’ve all been spending time together, soaking up our low-maintence fun before having to begin the high-maintence task of making new friends. One of them actually approached me about how I was handling everything going on…see, she read my last post and was a tad concerned. Immediately I felt bad because I thought none of my friends ever bothered reading this anymore, and wrote about it in the post she read. I also felt bad because I realized she cares about me a lot, and I’ve always neglected to come to her when I’m feeling upset. And then there was also just maybe fifteen minutes ago when I logged onto my blog and saw that a few WordPress readers liked it. That made me feel a bit bad too. But, alas, everyone gets in a bitchy mood sometime, and at least when it is written down it is optional to listen to.

Speaking of listening, everyone who has given me advice about my upcoming long-distance relationship is saying the same thing: make it or break it. It’s all about the work you put into it, and how much you both want it to work. Well great. Great. I’m left with the realization that if my relationship fails, it will be because one of us will either cheat or be too lazy to keep trying. That information is like a sack of potatoes, awkward and pressure-filled, balancing on the top of my head while I hula hoop with a ring of fire.

One thing about working at McDonald’s in this day and age is that the majority of my coworkers a) have kids b) are pregnant and c) are around my age. Everyone is squeezing them out. And all of those after-school specials I watched as a goofy middle-schooler are catching up with me; if you are having sex, does that pretty much make you doomed to have an unplanned pregnancy? That’s the LAST THING I need before leaving for college. Maybe I’m just worried because I don’t want to end up like Candace off of The Perks of Being A Wallflower, aborting some unwanted baby. The only thing I want to abort is Taco Bell from my stomach after one too many tacos. And even then, I’m aware of the down-sides.

There is just so many endings going on right now. Tonight I said my goodbyes to my grandparents, Tuesday night I said my goodbyes to group… Ugh, it was so sad. I’m happy that everyone in the group is in a good place now, but I know whenever I’m all screwed up again I’ll need them and want to hear about their lives. A few of them have become part of my family in a way, and I want them to be in my life still. For over a year we’ve been spilling out our souls to each other…that bonds people, you know?

But I know I’m doing the right thing by going away to college. It’s a new beginning, with new possibilities to change my life, blah blah blah, inspirational garbage. All I know is that the things that scare you are the ones worth while, so I’m right where I should be.


Some More Romantic Crap

When I was twelve, thirteen, fourteen, and even fifteen I was plagued with this sort of problem. It was almost a horrid deformity in my eyes, or some kind of curse a wicked stepmother put on me on accident in the ho

I’d rather date a tree sometimes anyway.

spital, picking the wrong baby. (Because I don’t have a stepmother, and usually in these stories the wicked people just don’t pick some random person out of a crowd and be all, “It’s your lucky day! I’m going to curse you!”)

Anyway, right, my deformity curse thing. Well, in all that time of pining and dreaming and wishing I could not get what ever (straight) girl is supposed to get: a man. Dammit! It was that time in my life where I was supposed to have some dippy first boyfriend who was a bad kisser that I dumped after two weeks of holding his hand in the hallways! I was supposed to be securing the knowledge of what it is like to be “in like” with someone who was “in like” with me! However, something about me just reeked anti-girlfriend.

At the time, I hated being alone when I knew that some people were “together”. I felt as if I was missing out. But, within the first year or two of living with this problem I just tried my best to shrug it off and carry on with life. I never, EVER thought I would miss those days.

Now you see what I’m getting at.

Zoom forward in time and here I am, wishing I didn’t have to deal a different stupid problem. Now I have an ex-boyfriend who can’t leave me alone, an ex-boyfriend who is speculated to have just used me for sex, a guy I really like who liked me too and I slept with only to ignored by, and a one night stand who I can’t stop thinking about. WHAT. THE. HELL.

Now I’m tormented with insecurity about my sex life (mainly the fact that I have one) by having to see a guy in the halls holding hands with an oblivious sophomore who I almost had sex with at a party, having to hang out with a friend who I really like and actually did sleep with, having an ex-boyfriend who said “gross” at the idea of sleeping with me, having a coworker who took my virginity, and trying to have a guy on the side.

I sound like such a slut.

But in reality I can count the number of times I’ve done it on one hand, which is more than the number of guys I’ve done it with. I try to tell myself I’m not this awful person, but I can’t help thinking that everyone else somehow knows and thinks I’m a whore.

I miss the days when I read dumb romance novels and was ignorant to how relationships actually begin and end. To how boyfriends can actually treat you if you let them. To being used. Back when words like “love” didn’t make me suspicious, but happy.

Dating is easier once you’ve dated. You recognize the signs and have more confidence to challenge them. You know how to interact in a romantic way, and aren’t so shy to being affectionate.

But relationships with people are hard and messed up when feelings get involved. And knowing that comes with experience in the dating field. It seems so incredibly unfair that romance is built up to be so wonderful when you don’t have it, but when you do, you look back at when you weren’t distracted by love, when times were easier and begin to miss them.

See, when you “grow up”, you start thinking that your curse is screwing up with everyone you’ve ever cared about. Frankly, that hurts more to gain and lose than do without. The people who have never felt love have never lost it, and that sounds like such a luxury, because once you lose someone you loved you never forget.

However, being a dumb high school senior, I still have plenty of more relationships ahead of me to screw up. Life goes on. After this ruined chance with Landon, the plan for now is to get myself to believe I’m still a babe who is free to have fun, whenever, with whoever. I may really miss the more personal things like the handholding, weakness in the knees, and forehead kisses but I guess it is really true that the worthwhile things are the ones you have to wait for.

What Girls Aren’t Supposed To Say

Last night before I went to bed I got on here and wrote a new post without publishing it. I was so incredibly angry that I just needed someone to listen and take my side right then and there. Because often when you have a fight with someone you care about, you need someone else to tell you that it is okay to be angry and say awful things and act badly. It can be hard sometimes to justify hurting the people you love even when they hurt you first. So I wrote this thing out and I did not hold back and by the time I ended it I felt so wiped out that I just went to bed.

Well, here it is, the day after, and let me tell you, it has sucked. Not only because it’s Monday, but also because I woke up this morning remembering that all of a sudden things between Charles and I didn’t seem so certain anymore.

Let me explain.

I know females are not supposed to want to have sex and be reckless about it and let people they met earlier that night run their hands all over them, but the truth is, some of us are like that. Some of us have given up on giving a damn. So basically, I am in love with Charles, and I thought he loved me, and I trust him and want him to be my first. Not an awful thing to want, right? You’ve got love, check. Trust? Check. Protection? Check. The previous embarrassment of letting someone see you naked? Check. All signs point towards go. The universe is telling you to collect two hundred dollars (should have known it would go downhill…I stink at Monopoly). And yet, said person does not want to have sex.


“Why can’t you be like girls all used to be, and want it to be perfect and just right?” he asked. “Don’t you want it to be with someone you love?”

Great. Not only am I in love with a guy who refuses to sleep with me, but he also seems to doubt the relationship.

In a way, it’s reasons like that which make me want to do it with him. He’s already hurt me and seen me at some truly low points; no one else would be able to walk on in and hurt me.

That’s what shocked me when I reread my almost-blog post when I got home. It was if I just wanted to get it over with, because no matter what, it would never be perfect because I’ll get hurt.

Maybe Charles is right. Maybe its fair that he wants to skip the tears and energy.

Part of me refuses to believe that. Part of me says he owes it to me to let me lay in his arms and  need someone there.

But that might be approaching a girly point of view, where her first is the knight in shinning armor. If you want the truth, here it is: everyone wants to feel needed. To give, to accept, to feel wanted. And that includes being physical with people. As a person who feels less certain about the stability and functionality of her mental affairs, it makes sense that I want to express things through a different outlet.

So sorry Charles, that I can’t just wait until the honeymoon and put you through such torture then. Guess I’m just not the girl who will take “Why?” for an answer.

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