I’ve got like 13 topics I want to cover. I don’t have the time, and you don’t have the attention span, so let’s see if I can bullet-point my chaos. (Hahaha. Me and brevity don’t get along.)
I had an epiphany late last night. I said something shitty on Facebook about and/or to {D}’s girlfriend. No real regrets there. Sorry not sorry, toots.
And it weirdly… focused me.
It hit me how miserable {D} must be now. The Ed Sheeran music all was the nail in the coffin. That man is miserable and I know it.
And here’s the embarrassing part: I was still feeling competitive.
But I’m prettier, younger, way smarter, better musical pairing, arguably saner (which is just just ridiculously sad)—and I already knew I was a better fuck because he told me so. That motherfucker was bored with her two years ago, and that was before the full “live together” experience. Back then it was special-occasion hotel sex. Now it’s… life. Now it's watching him on couch drinking himself to death in his underwear watching Bobby Flay while he sulks and blames me for destroying his life (and not vice-versa as it should be. I've said it before, this was your fuck up. You are the one who raped someone. Just because you never expected me to fight back does not make you're pathetic demise my fault. Actions have consequences. And he’s too fucking bored for words.And too fucking scared to leave.
This has been years in the making. He wouldn’t date me, said he didn’t want a relationship, then—surprise—he was in a relationship back in 2021 early 2022. When he came back around in 2022, I almost didn’t even speak to him. That would’ve been the smart thing.
But I’ve been dragging this self-esteem thing around for like 5 years, and I’m done. Not even being a bitch—just genuine relief: it wasn’t me. It was his sorry ass poor taste in women. I challenged him. He hates not being the smartest person in the room. And that I know more about cars tha he does.
So yeah. Boost of self-confidence.
I told LawyerBoy all this and basically said: you do, in fact, love me—because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t put up with my shit. He’s not in love with me, and I’m not in love with him. But love? Yeah. It’s there.
Also: there’s this millionaire bodybuilder—USC, owns a biotech company, 6 feet tall, under 50, lots of hair—who I false-started dating right when {D} and I stopped speaking. I was obviously cray-cray at the time, so it didn’t stick.
He hit me up a couple weeks ago. We texted all night last nighy. We planned dinner tonight. I’m wearing a dress. Don’t wait up.
So things are looking up. I realized I’m better than {D}, and then I got immediate proof of concept. Kicked ass today.
I worked on guitars all day. One is these nineteenth-century French paintings of nude women being devoured by demons on a BC Rich Beast-style body. It’s not done yet, but it’s… meaningful. Like, in a way I don’t even want to explain.
I had to stop on that build because of a shipping delay, so I shifted to another concept: a painting that gets “dismembered,” then I tack each body part back to the torso with nails and red string or ribbon.
Except I can’t find the girl. I can see her in my head—vintage nude burlesque, Bettie Page vibe, the body position is perfect in my mind—and I can’t find the damn image. And this guitar body is gorgeous: stained LP semi-hollow body, flame maple veneer. It deserves the right art.
And then I made a huge mistake.
I thought, “Maybe I should google vintage bondage.”
I threw up.
I can’t look at that shit. I was having such a good fucking day, too.
Now I’m not even sure I’m going to make it out tonight. I’m in a freeze. Goddamnit.
I might push dinner to tomorrow so I’m not all fucking weird with this guy tonight—and no, I’m not popping anti-anxiety meds just to force myself into being ‘dateable.’
I might stay home, toss together an acoustic smash-and-burn with leftover supplies, and go to sleep early.
The bodybuilder can wait another night
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