You constantly bum cigarettes off of people while out drinking yet claim that you “don’t smoke.”
You avoid romantic comedies like the plague because you don’t want to have to deal with the two main characters having a happy ending (and are prone to cursing at the screen).
A woman who masturbates — especially one who masturbates often — is defective in some way. She needs a man, or is driving all of the potential suitors away with her flagrant demonstrations of self-satisfaction.
Because maybe relationships don’t have to fulfill everything for everybody. Maybe you are right in wanting less, and I am being overly demanding in wanting something serious.
Feeling cheated out of what you had always imagined adulthood would look like, and resentful towards a generation of hardcore debters that left us a relatively bleak financial and professional landscape.
There are times at which all you want to do is get someone a dozen roses and whatever chocolate is a step up from a Whitman’s sampler, but now is not one of those times.
I wish that you leaving weren’t some horrible fate which lingered on the periphery of my vision and haunted me with prospects of having to start all over again when I was once sure I had it all figured out.
You lied about not feeling well in order to cancel plans at the last minute and, even though it felt amazing to do at the time, you ended up feeling like an asshole shortly afterwards because, well, you lied.
I was not lucky to have you. I was not chosen by some divine spirit who looked past my physical flaws to gift me with your half-hearted attention.
No one “accidentally” puts it in the butt. No one. Not even you. You’re not magic. Stop trying it.