Who is this magical, mystical creature? Was he delivered to earth by Zeus himself in a blaze of lightning? Is Hercules jealous his beautiful brother is giving him a run for his money? How many sculptures has Leonardo Da Vinci molded after that razor sharp jawline? Does he excrete rainbows? He must – look at that ass! His eyes sing secret symphonies that could bring dead infants back to life. They should probably test his saliva for the secret ingredient to curing cancer, too. God damn.
How would he fit into my life? Would my brothers set up traps to “accidentally” break his bones on staircases or would they willingly show him the way to the living room? Are his palms a good fit for mine? More importantly, how many Cheezels can he grab? Has my quest to find the perfect person to feed me crumbs while I lie motionless watching South Park finally come to an end?
I can’t start depending on him. I’m already looking forward to that smile, Jesus Christ! This boy makes me second guess everything I say. Each word I utter feels like an expired time bomb. These phrases, these feelings are something I buried long ago. Unearthing them would lead to nothing but disaster. What is happening? Who am I? This boy is going to get me into such a daze I’ll walk right into a bus ala Regina George. Neck braces are soooo 2012.
This is going to end badly. I must run. I heard that cult in the hills is searching for a new recruit. They’d love me. My supple 23 year old body would appeal very much to the Manson-wannabe leader. This oven is ready and raring to go – just not in his direction. I’ll leave for the hills at dawn tomorrow. Time to put those survival skills I learned in girl scouts to good use!
Magical creatures only exist in the minds of the mentally disturbed or teenagers on multiple drips of LSD. Bill Cosby must’ve been hovering in the shadows and slipped something into my drink the day I met him. That glorious ass is starting to look fake too. I guess they weren’t kidding when they said butt-pads are now a thing. Huh. Silly me for deluding myself into thinking I liked him. I know better than this. Yeah, this was all an easily discarded, hormonally charged mistake.
Mission activate slow fade has been set into motion. I taught myself the cruel art of not needing closure a long time ago. Hopefully he did too. I don’t think I’d be able to explain myself even if I tried. Any attempts to explain this severance would just come out as vomited chunks of selfishness and I’d feel so guilty I’d pull a U-Turn. Yes, now where do I purchase a horse fly mask? Preferably one built specifically for cupid-infected humans like myself?
I am Beyonce
This is nothing a couple of anthems can’t fix. Cue motivational female-empowering post-break up music. Hello booty-shaking morning routines. Hello old me! I functioned perfectly well before he came along. His absence will taste bitter for awhile but no queen gives up her throne for a silly boy. I like that I no longer wait for good morning texts or good night texts to fall asleep. I like that it’s back to depending on myself to nurse myself back to health after a long day. My bed looks the way it should again – empty on one side, and filled with junk I’m too lazy to clean up.
Who am I kidding. He’s a good thing and hasn’t done anything to make me believe otherwise (yet) other than owning a penis. I shouldn’t punish him for having a body part he was born with. I could burn this bridge but I’d spend the next year or so plagued with endless what ifs. He might break my heart, but that’s alot better than me breaking my own heart the 100th time. Here’s hoping I just don’t pull a “me” and revert back to step 3 all over again..