Slutty von Slutwhore and the Case of the Cognitive Behavioral Therapy

Therapist assures me she can change my thinking of myself as “Slutty von Slutwhore.”

*challengey face* You go ahead, dearie. It’s so much a part of my lexicon that my phone knows the word “Slutwhore,” so let me know how that works out for you.

Unless you’re gonna, like, “Eternal Sunshine” me? Yes. I would like my mind to be spotless, please.

“Well, it sounds like you didn’t feel slutty until [Thing] happened.”

Um, yeah, in which “Thing” = “I started being slutty.” Christ, I pay you for this?

Seriously, though, I’m glad she’s planning to help me get past this, because I could REALLY stand to get laid without torturing myself after. It’s quite a lot of tension at this point — I almost feel bad for the unfortunate soul who has to be under me when I get unleashed. I might need backup dick.

N.B. Some of this has dissipated just with the passage of time. I know I wasn’t “slutty” — I made a few bad choices and fell for one wrong person who, intentionally or not, made me feel that way. But I learned from all of it, including the very valuable lesson that sometimes I NEED to get laid.

Besides, “slutty” is in the eye of the beholder, and everyone who beholds me doesn’t see it. (And if you do, fuck you, go away.)

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