Cheat On Me Once, Shame On You. Cheat On Me Twice, Shame On…
Percent likelihoods based on qualitative interviews with cheated-on criers, mopers, sadsacks revenge-focused psychos, and unstoppable chocolate eaters who, like everybody, just want someone to love them for who they are with a kind of reckless abandon. Why is that so hard?
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Will it feel the same when you tell me you love me over the phone? Will the peacefulness of those words still floor me from thousands of miles away?
I was conflicted. It felt like one eye was trying to look away while the other soaked it up. I felt the heat rise in my face. This was wrong. But it didn’t feel wrong.
Any nervous flyer knows the progression of descending panic: bile, sweaty palms, social awkwardness and self-induced sedation.
I know how it feels when the weight of darkness crashes down onto your chest in the middle of the night, and how you wish things would stop spinning because the axis seems tilted now. I know, love, I know.