I took a day off from the book. I slept most of the day, so now I’m awake in the middle of the night. I have no structure. There is no god in my world. As the great Eric Cartman once said, “Whatever. I do what I want.”
I need a job and some structure in my life. I am not doing okay. The book keeps me busy to an obsessive level. At least I’m thinking about something else. Well, same topic, different stream of consciousness.
I’m still pissed off about rock and roll lawyer inand his booty call. That’s just cold, man. If one more man tells me I’m not good enough to date but good enough to fuck, I’m going to fucking lose it. I’m tired of it.
That is what {D} did to me for years. I was thinking about that. I kept asking, after the apocalypse, why. Why did it have to be me? Why when I had already gone through so much and he knew it? Why me?
On top of that, he used my feelings for him to do it. I wanted so badly to believe he loved me. When he told me he loved me while I screamed and begged him to stop, he knew exactly what he was doing. It was calculated. He never loved me. He loved the control it gave him over me when he said it.
I am a chronic victim of sexual abuse. I don’t know how the world works without it.
I remember December 2024. I met a guy I was just drawn to. He sang “Ain’t No Sunshine” to me. That was {D}’s song. He was a porn producer. His entire house was a bunch of porn sets. He had a master’s in fine arts and was a spectacular artist. He was also out on bail after a sting operation where he was supposed to meet a father with his eight-year-old daughter.
When I found that out, I lost it. I don’t know how these predators find me. I don’t know what it is about me that draws them to me, and God, what draws me to them?
I get that I’m fucked up. I get that I’m weird. I get that I can be difficult to handle. There is no way any normal man would ever want me. I get that. But do they all have to be sexual predators?
{D} asked me once, “Why can’t you believe I love you?” I tried so hard to convince myself he loved me. That wasn’t love. And what I feel when I think I’m in love isn’t love either.
Ain’t neurochemistry a bitch?
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