Terribly Awkward With Boys

I know—–

“It comes when you’re not looking for it.”

“No one’s going to love you if you don’t love yourself.”

“Stop dwelling on the past.”

“You don’t need someone to make you happy.”

“Forgive and forget.”

Those and many more cliches can suck my dick.

I’m bitter. I do not forgive him for breaking my heart and I do not want to see him happy. I want him to hurt the way he hurt me. I don’t want him to even exist anymore; I want his entire life to be an all consuming hell of the worst kind of misery. That wallop of a shitty breakup has left me irreparably damaged. Honestly, I want to be with someone. I do. But even if I did meet someone and start a relationship, I would be forever questioning it. I honestly don’t think I’d believe anything a man ever said to me. I’d constantly be doubting whether he actually felt anything, or was just with me until something better came along. I’d be consumed with paranoia, trying to read into absolutely everything, looking for imaginary hints to pick up on. I’d be always on the edge of my seat, waiting for the moment he decided to stop contact.
Because that’s just what my ex did. We never broke up. He just stopped answering the phone, stopped calling me. I can definitely handle being dumped. But I can’t handle being literally thrown away. Like a piece of garbage. Because garbage doesn’t need to talk about why you don’t want it, garbage doesn’t have to be lied to, garbage doesn’t have feelings or a point of view. Garbage will just accept its place in the trash.
Unfortunately, I’m actually a person. So when my ex had locked himself away and even his close friends hadn’t heard from him, I was naively concerned. I thought his depression was getting worse and that maybe he would do something stupid. Eventually a mutual friend drove me to his house so we could check on him. It was like nothing was wrong. One excuse he had for not answering the phone was because he was “drinking a lot” and he knew I’d be mad. Oh okay. So now I’m just in love with an alcoholic.
I ended up asking him if he needed time, wanted to break up, wanted space, etc. to deal with whatever he was going through. His reply had been “No. I love you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” Ah, yes. Young, naive. We worked it out for about two more weeks when he did it again. Just fell off the face of the earth. Of course, this time I actually caught on that he was ditching me. So I was busy flirting with all of the adorable foreign boys at work, falling into hopeless crushes on guys who would soon be gone to Europe.
I kept calling him, just to see when I could go get my things. It took about a month for him to randomly answer the phone. A month. We hadn’t even technically broke up. In any case, I told him I was coming by to get my things. My first serious relationship. My cherry popper. My naive “love.”
He opened the door and said, “Hey, how’s it going?” as if i just casually stopped to have a beer. The whole time I was there he had this aloof conversation going. And when I left, he said, “Thanks for stopping by, it was nice seeing you.” Excuse me? Really? My supposed boyfriend just treated me like someone he barely knew. HE WAS INSIDE ME. His cock was in my mouth any chance I could get it there and now it was as if he didn’t even know me. Great. What’s worse is that I ditched the sweetest guy ever to start dating this disaster. At least I was honest with him though, and tried to be nice. I didn’t just randomly break off contact.

In any case, I feel justly bitter. Sometimes this “experience” doesn’t mean shit to me, and other times I feel like it has deeply affected/changed me. Aside from the trust and paranoia issues, I went through a bit of a slutty phase immediately following that…. “breakup.” I am not blaming anyone for the shit I do, but I definitely needed to prove to myself that someone actually wanted me, and that I wouldn’t be alone forever. Naturally, that meant I basically threw myself at everyone I thought was adorable.
I’m not saying I REALLY slutted it up, but I definitely was not acting as I used to. I had standards before. I wanted everything to be momentous. I even had issues with kissing… there were plenty of awkward moments after my hand reflexively went up to block a kiss from someone on just a first date. It took a lot for me to feel comfortable with someone enough to even let them hug me. But now that I had lost it to some douche bag, I figured I had to make up for lost time.
Don’t get the wrong idea, I can still count on one hand…… well anyway. I ended up making out with plenty of guys in bars, friends of friends, meeting guys off of the internet, etc. I learned a lot about kissing, at least. I had originally thought I didn’t even enjoy kisses. Now I know it was just the guys I was kissing. Some guys got a little more. Some got a little less. It was fun to feel attractive and wanted, to have someone just grab you and push you against the brick wall of an alley to kiss you. I certainly felt a fuck of a lot better than I did when I would call a phone that just kept… ringing.
I also learned the power of breasts. Any time I felt lonely I just had to go out in something low cut. Of course, eventually that wasn’t enough. I fell in love with my boobs, my tits, my tatas. They helped me from feeling lonely. I discovered picture messaging. To guys I really liked, whose attention I craved, out went my boobs. I had their attention, and I loved it. Something real, but superficial.
But apparently, guys don’t like the kind of girl I became. The kind of girl who sends you a picture of her boobs just because she has a crush on you, well, she isn’t the kind of girl you end up dating. In fact, I seem to have developed a sort of Good Luck Chuck syndrome. In that movie, Chuck fucks a girl, and the next guy she dates, she ends up marrying. Well in my case, I make out with a guy I like, and within the next two weeks he suddenly has a girlfriend. Here’s a hint: it’s never me.
I honestly believe I’m going to be alone forever, just me and my cats, turning the hose on pedestrians who walk too close to my yard. Talking to the television, feeding the cats from my dinner plate, wearing mumus, that’s me.

Bitter and alone.

And no fucking comments about getting over it and being over dramatic etc. I’m fucking venting. You vent, I’m allowed to vent too. You don’t like it, don’t fucking read it.