I guess you have to fall to learn your lesson. You have to get your ego bruised real bad otherwise it wouldn’t be much of a lesson. Nevertheless, I don’t worth one anklet. I certainly don’t worth two bucks.
My outlook in relationship and matters of the heart is going to change from here on out. I get labeled many times in my life. From a relationship wrecker to a slut. But nothing hurts more than being called a slut and that my ‘genital’ should be put in the map because it’s the hottest spot in town (because it’s always open) when you tried to run on something other than lust and work on a relationship for a change.
I guess no matter what you do, a label sticks with you.
I’m not going to look outside myself for fast acceptance and what some of us might called social approval. I told myself that I’m not going to dignify his action by calling him, but in the end i succumbed to it. I thought it was only fair to let him know I don’t enjoy him making assumptions about me without getting to the bottom of it. Because honestly, I expected more from him. I’m not going to try to understand why he had to say such spiteful things about me to someone I don’t even know from Adam.
Towards the end of our conversation, I extended my olive branch. I was getting tired of the fight. We misconstrued each other all the time it became pointless.
I’m not going to keep pretending I’m a good girl and put on a big charade. Yeah I admit I teased cocks every now and then but that’s about it. No one ever succeeded in taking me for a ride.
I know i am no longer in Arif’s friends good graces. It is also sad to think that when that relationship died, all my old friends died with it. Also when that relationship died, i became the bad person. I can’t convince everyone I’ve changed, i’ve became the shadow of my former self and I haven’t been in the slutty business for 8 years.
I am also, not a born-again slut. When something significant happened to you, albeit a bad one, you lock that Slut-in-a-box trunk and throw away the keys.
If I am guilty of any crime, it would be my being an emotional slut. I get really sexed up with the person I’m in a relationship with, I went head over heels over anklet and a spaghetti top, I feel empowered to know his dislike towards gizzard and seafood, I swooned when he saved me a place next to him at Chicken Rice Shop, I ate with delight the buns and coffees he bought me at work, I saved his chocolate wrappers and bottle caps and his notes written in his impaired writing, I had a perpetual smile on my face when he told me he’s planning a holiday with me once he’s home, and how he hates it when I waste my food.
I love to feel like i belong to someone. That alone is enough to suspend logic. Most of my actions aren’t logical anyway.
I’m an emotional slut.
I don’t know how the words about my going out with billions of boys get around. For the past two months, only Salman Rushdie, Hunter S.Thompson, Khalil Gibran, Dante Alighieri, and Milton shared my bed at night, one man at a time. Occasionally, Jackie Collins slips under the sheets and tells me tales of Hollywood wives. Last night, Sophie Kinsella educated me the lingo of Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahniks shoes while I sat on my pillow, spoon digging out sinful bites of chocolate ice-cream.
If getting lost in a world of fiction every night and dating a vibrator I named Jack made me a mayor in Slutsville, I shudder to think what one must do to be a nun.
What sort of world we are living in now if one can’t be true to oneself without fueling gossips.
P’s : Arif’s dating someone else now. Raise your glass to the new happy couple.
