I’ve done some statistical analysis of my writing habits as they relate to my relationship status and found that having a girlfriend pretty much fucks my flow. This is my flaw, not hers.
You see, I’m not easily offended. In fact, the one thing that offends me most is easily offended people. You’d find most comedians feel the same way. It’s exasperating. If the offended party happens to be a sex provider, it increases the angst. A few misplaced words or misinterpreted phrases can result in access denied.
So, when dating, I’ll pound out a sentence, pause, re-read, soften, re-read, soften more, re-read, get disgusted by the Dr. Seuss I’ve become, backspace the entire line, and return to inanity.
What’s a boy to do? The little friend in my pants insists I keep his playmates around—any not the hairy ones attached to me. In order to do that, I have to find ones who don’t read or won’t be offended. That’s as easy as finding a man who doesn’t have “being blown” at the top of his life-hack pyramid.
Friends don’t help the situation. The typical comments I get when they find a female attachment on me include:
- “I don’t need to know her name since she’ll be gone inside a month.”
- “What’s this one’s flaw? No chin? Teeth too big? Dog lover?”
- “Wow. How much did she cost?”
It’s so much easier to stay single and search for nothing more than one-night-stands. While in that state, I can turn the tables on those curmudgeons. All I need to do is wait for the inevitable misdeed followed by the wish to live vicariously through solo me. I sip, smile, and suggest the infirmed has cow buyer’s remorse.
Yes, of course it gets lonely. That’s why we have pets, right? I had fat turd Symon cat curled up on my lap last night while I watched a movie. He purred and left a layer of orange fur on my black tee. Was that preferable to spooning with a ginger human?
Symon can’t read. He wants food and a comfy bed. While he seems to shit more than the average human, he gives no shits about my relationship condition. If my female “toy” would scratch behind his ear and feed him tuna, he’d suggest I keep it. Otherwise, especially if it is a noisy toy, it needs to be recycled.
I’ve tried to plod on with my prose while maintaining a lover. She claimed uninterested in my words and left them be unread. She lied. I could tell. My blog is like an unlocked mobile phone, left next to the remote. It has caused many a sexual river to dry.
Fuck it. I’m single and meant to be as I am. I’ll probably die lonely, left to be eaten by my pets. My relatives will sort through my past and cast away what little remains, but these words will live on to remind my exes that I did them a favor by “ghosting.”
On to Ms. Next. Hey there, lovely. How you doin’?
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