The story is complicated, and I’m not sure I even want to make it make sense for you (yes you, random clickhole casualty). I wasn’t even going to touch this name, I’ve spent years avoiding this name despite how incredibly common it is.
Last work outing I went to with the boy, there was a very attractive Asian woman, a coworker of his who he addressed familiarly, with her diminutive douchebag looking boyfriend. Seeing him, easily a foot taller than her and her “man”… he was looking at her. And I could tell that he knew, or at least he thought he knew, that he could have her if he wanted her, if he hadn’t had her already.
I clicked away because I’m so scared that I won’t be able to depend (I originally put in defend) on the people that I need to, I had to see if there was some way that I could discreetly do it without them.
Don’t let Perfect Be the Enemy of Good
I feel myself holding back, like I would do with my dog while we were walking, her on a leash, and me with somewhere to go. She would try to sniff at something, many things, and rather than slow down I would tug the leash and she’d return to my pace. There were some very useful things sometimes hiding off the path when we first moved into her last house.
I have an acidic anxiety in my stomach, possibly a result of the chocolate ice cream and Fritos that I ate yesterday (it’s been a while since I ate that much corn in one go, I immediately knew it was the wrong thing to do, it was so painful) or the fact that the only other thing I ate was a glass of wine and a load
Why is embarrassment so hard for me to deal with, and why can I not even spell it? I blame (not the right word, but yes it sort of is) my Father, who puts image before everything, his own physical well being, and mine. I was raised to look nothing less than perfect, never limp even if you only have one leg.
My ex, the real one, really fucked me up. There are some things that I can blame on him, and some things I can’t, but as I try to schedule a time into my day to bring the final papers to my notary and for the last time let him siphon another $75 (exactly .01% of what he previously stole, ironically) from me, I realize how I have turned away from monitoring my money because I didn’t want to acknowledge how much he stole. It sickens me that I can be so blind.
I’m holding back, and I don’t know why. At the beginning, where I say that I don’t have time for this, I then frame my thoughts with that as the excuse for glossing over things, for rushing through things, and leaving the stones unturned along my path to whatever scrap of meaning that I scrape together out of my sleep dust. All that’s well and good, but I see that I’m still here, more than a year later, with the same problems, the same ex, the same boy, and the same headache. If I skip over the stones, if I turn over the stones, the same time was taken. There is no use rushing through this. This space, it’s not a path to somewhere, it’s a racing track. Everything that I run past, I’ll be running past it again on the next lap.
In my family, which is full of very attractive people, most of which get better with age, it is thoroughly acknowledged that sexuality is a part of everything human, as obvious as that is. And, it is expected that, with all inherent talents and skills, it should be honed and used to it’s maximum advantage. I feel bad for everyone who feels differently.