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It’s hard to let go of someone who’s been such a big part of your life for so long. It’s even harder when that person refuses to let you go.
my roommate Hannah is away this weekend, which means she won’t be around to lecture me about the emotional perils of wallowing in my misery.
I fear i would do this
Men. They can’t take one second to put the toilet seat down, but they have the time to program the ESPN theme song as their ringtone?
Sex and relationships go hand in hand for me. I’m all about the snuggling and inside jokes and talking late into the night. I’m a card-carrying member of Team Boyfriend, and after last night, I can honestly say that Team One Night Stand sucks balls.
I told her I wanted her again, and she’d hung up on me. That doesn’t happen to me—ever. I’m Dean Di Laurentis, for fuck’s sake. I can snap my fingers and a dozen chicks appear, begging to ride my dick.
Ugh this MMC is kinda insufferable (at least so far)
I think it takes a certain level of trust to sit next to someone and not feel the pressing urge to babble away.
I hate knowing that I hurt someone I care about. I have this terrible habit of wanting to make everyone happy, even if it means sacrificing my own happiness.
“You know, I don’t think we’re dealing with a Bella’s-magical-blood situation here.” “No?” “No. I think you’ve imprinted on this girl’s pussy.”
“Stop slut-shaming yourself. And fuck the word ‘slut.’ People should be able to have sex whenever they want, however many times they want, with however many partners they choose, and not get some shitty label slapped on them.”
Allie heaves out a sigh. “What?” I demand. “I can’t decide if you’re being sincere or if you’re trying to get in my pants again.”
the reality of when a man is nice to you
His dirty-blond hair ruffles behind him, and I decide he might need a lesson about hair too—as in, trim the shit out of it before it reaches mullet status, or wave goodbye to any chance of getting laid.
“Tell me more about Mr. Thirty-Seven,” I urge. “I promise there’s no judgment on my end.” She grudgingly provides a few more details. “His name’s Trevor. He’s a pediatric surgeon at Boston General.” Okay, I’m impressed. “He’s divorced, and he has a five-year-old daughter.” Hmm. Not so impressed anymore.
I’m still glaring at Dean when my phone vibrates in my purse. I absently fish it out and my breath catches when I see the message. Him: Remember when I took that tequila shot off your tits?
He resettles in his seat just as the current song ends and the opening strains of Dean’s selection blare out of the speakers. It’s Cheap Trick’s “I Want You to Want Me.” I can’t stop a burst of laughter, which earns me a strange look from Fitzy. “Did I miss the punchline?” he asks. “Nope. Sometimes I just laugh for no reason,” I say flippantly. “I’m weird like that.”
So maybe I need to rationalize this out. Premise I: Dean Di Laurentis is a phenomenal lay. Premise II: He wants to have sex with me again. Premise III: The idea of having sex with him turns me on. Conclusion: I should have sex with Dean. All right, that one was easy enough.
I know women. And when they clam up like this? They’re not just working one thought over in their brains. Nope, they’re constructing a complicated web of scenarios and what ifs, each thread layering over another, thickening and twisting until suddenly they’re mad about something that never even occurred to you.
I’m too busy dealing with the realization that apparently I’m helpless without a boyfriend. I’m…co-dependent? Is that the right word? And is that why I kept getting back together with Sean? Because I can’t be alone? I had a boyfriend the entire time I was in high school too…
I thought love would take longer to fade, which makes me wonder if maybe the process had begun long before Sean and I broke up. Maybe I fell out of love with him earlier and hadn’t realized it.
Nobody should ever be someone else’s entire world. That’s not healthy, AJ. If your whole life is centered on one thing—one person—whatcha going to be left with if that person goes away? Absolutely nothing.” He gruffly reiterates, “Not healthy.”
“I’ve never been alone, Dean. Ever. It’s always been one relationship after the other with me. I’m not sure I even know how to be alone, and I think this might be a good time to figure it out.
“I don’t want you to worry” is how he starts, and oh my God, who says that? Now I’m worried!
For crying out loud. Do all guys share one brain or something? Like a collective consciousness that causes them to make the same bone-headed moves?
