See, look at me, understanding a bad workweek is influencing my inclination to say, “Fuck this, I’m going home, and why is this New OkCupid Guy getting all bitchface at me? [He’s not, at all, my brain is just breaking.] I’m never dating again. No one’s dick is worth me having to get Date Pretty, what with the showering and the shaving things and the being charming — I have no charm, I hate everyone. I am officially OK dying sexless, peach fuzzy, and alone with my blankets and books.”
I KNOW WHEN I’M PROJECTING, SHITDICK ELBOW HECKLER.
Hm. Maybe I don’t even need to take the coward’s way out of this “breakup.” I haven’t heard from him since Christmas Day, and that includes an uncharacteristically booty-call-free weekend — I think the first since I’ve known him. This is good, because I was frankly too goddamn tired to shave anything all weekend, let alone deal with the performance of sex. (Yep, “performance.” Go big or go home, people.)