No matter how many times I catch myself saying “Bitch, if you say you’re doing this shit again, you’re getting committed”, somehow I end up doing this shit again. Don’t ask me why, you know I clearly don’t learn my lesson, and also, I’m obviously not that smart.
Duh.
So, prior to calling in the little guys in white jackets to haul my ass off for a month long vacation, let’s review my notes:
I swear I don’t have a Fuckboy magnet implanted somewhere on my person.
A Fuckboy somehow picks up on this homing beacon and locates me.
I blindly think the Fuckboy is a decent human being.
I discover they are, indeed, pure and unadulterated Fuckboy.
I tell said Fuckboy exactly what type of day he should have, not using “nice”, “great”, or “lovely”.
I come back here and tell all of you the updated playbook of the Fuckboy, including what weak-ass game they just ran on me.
Rinse and repeat.
Yep. Well, let’s get down to that updated playbook then, y’all.
Look, I really don’t want to be that woman. The one that has sworn off every dude because of the actions of a handful of complete and total shit excuses for human beings. But, if I’m being honest, it’s more and more difficult to continue being happy to think that there’s a “this time”, then finding out, yet again, not for me.
I think maybe, it’s not them, it’s me. I don’t want to discuss inane topics or waste my time with someone who can barely stumble through the fairy tales he reads his 4 children with 3 baby mamas. I don’t even care if that makes me sound like a bitch. Hhhh- Noooo! Not a bitch! Anything but that!
Bitch, please, I’ll be that all day long and well into tomorrow. No, I don’t want someone who can’t handle their life and feels as though I seem to be a competent life manager for them. I’m not. I don’t want someone who can’t seem to straighten out their issues stemming from their late teens. I don’t care.
Whatever it is that is happening with you dudes that makes you think that it’s ok to not be a stand-up guy, to not be a reliable, honest, and respectful man…please, when you get back from that meeting of the Fuckboys, lose my number.
I really don’t want to know you, so don’t say hi. I don’t want to be your wallet, your landlord, your chauffeur, your nanny, your dry cleaner, or your personal chef. I’m just moseying along over here, not fucking bothering anyone, so stop popping the fuck up and trying to ruin my life.
I’m not with it.
In closing, after reviewing my notes for a third time, consider me officially taking a mental vacation. I need some time to wrap my brain around the fact that it is quite possible I am a Fuckboy magnet. I’ll be in the house depolarizing if anyone is looking for me.