You know, I started this blog as a way to catalog the final days of my life. I’m pretty damn sure I’m about ready. Ever since my early 20’s ended up with me crawling out of my sinkhole, I decided that when I wanted to die, it was going to be MY choice. Now, here I am in my late 30’s and I just can’t take it anymore.
A while back, I met an amazing man. Well, I thought he was amazing. Turns out he’s a dog. I love him still.
He waltzed right in, said all the right things, and I fell for it. Hook, line, and sinker. He became my world. My reason for breathing, my reason for eating, my reason for sleeping. I couldn’t wait for the next day, so I could hear all the wonderful things he’d say that day.
You see, I’m not beautiful. I don’t have the whole world in my hands through power, money, love, or sex. I have nothing. Nothing to offer but love the only way I know how: nurturing, caring, and a hint of submission. Subservience, if you will. I just desperately want someone to see that I’m not like all these bitches you see today. I don’t care if my hair is flat. I don’t care if I can’t wear all the latest fashions because I’m not a size 2. I don’t care if I don’t regularly go out and get smashed for the entertainment of others. I don’t play word games. I say exactly what I mean. I can be loud. I can be boisterous. I can be outgoing. I can take a joke. I can throw my middle finger up if I don’t have a witty comeback to your joke. I can say “Oh, fuck off!” when you make your jokes about women in the kitchen and still laugh. I don’t mind doing your laundry. I don’t mind your anger or your tears. I don’t mind making dinner after we’ve both been working all day. I like sex. I like rough sex. I like my reading time. I like my gaming time. I love the time I spend before bed, getting high as fuck so I can sleep. I like black and purple and pink. I hate yellow.
And isn’t it funny that almost all men I know say that’s what they want in a woman. But not this woman. They tell me it’s not about my looks, or whatever. They’re just not wanting anything right this moment. And two weeks later, they’ve got a new girlfriend. Right. Tell me again how it wasn’t about me.
But back to HIM. With him, my looks really didn’t matter. He wanted me for me. For what I offered. My love and devotion. At least, that’s what I like to tell myself now. I like to tell myself that it all just went crazy and it all somehow ended up getting fucked up.
I still remember the first real flirtation we had. It was just me and him. We didn’t really speak at first. But then he just says, “Pulse racing.” I looked at him and wondered what he was on about. Then I saw the look on his face. I knew how to respond. “Butterflies.”
He laughs. “I don’t have anything else!”
We laugh together and that was it. It was me and him. Together. Always.
This story isn’t over. He’s not why I’m ready to wrap up this life. He is only but a small piece of the puzzle that makes up me. There’s so many sharp turns that somewhere along the way, I got lost. Maybe he did too. I’m still not too sure. Alen had a plan. He perfectly executed it.