Requiem for a Douchebag (Or Angry Midnight Rantings)

I am not what you want me to be. Furthermore, I don’t care what you really want me to be because in all honesty I am finally at a point where I can quite certainly say that I am more than happy just being me.

Step back before we wreck this. Please, just think about this. Think about what? A word is hardly worth the precious little penny you throw on your car’s console. Really? Did you think that repeated sweet talk was going to keep me around? I won’t lie - I dig the way you dig everything about me, but you obviously don’t dig it enough to declare it, which is really all I wanted. You see, I never really trusted you, and can you blame me?

You throw your charm around the room like the drunks pop confetti bombs on New Years. The shit is all over the place, hell, I think I may even be able to smell it in my hair. You bat your eyelashes and wink, too. I fucking hate that. It’s not that I think it is unattractive - it is cute in its way, but in truth all it tells me is that truth is something a little too relative to you. Dangerously relative…

Do…you….get…it…

(breathe)

God I really enjoyed exposing everything to you - (you can’t catch my witty sarcasm because of the print) - lying there completely unfolded before your hungry eyes, and what did you do? What did you do?
Think on this -

Wait, don’t, you may fall asleep again.

I am tired of being sweet here - I am making myself sick. Not because of the things I do, but because the way you never seem to appreciate how genuine they are - they come from a sacred place, and I am only starting to realize that you are not worth the first emotional investment I have decided to make in the last five years.

You…suck…me…dry

Silly that I would allow it to happen, but I am holding my head up while I realize that this time I only let this go on for a month before I dropped the bag of shit like the dirty little no no that it is. Hey, in the end, I see it this way -- it was a good way to transition myself to a new city. I had the distraction I needed to keep on keeping on, and baby, at least I got a little bit of love out of the deal - even if it was - by all means - a LITTLE bit. (You must use your imagination here, or else I am quite sorry to say you will be let down).

Ahem. Now, back to being proper. Let’s talk.

I don’t dig how many women you keep around on the backburner while you wait to find your favorite tunnel of love. As you said - one million only looks good until you see two, and BOOM - like a fucking ra ra ah ha moment it hits me - I am your one million. Of course, it is quite possible I am your two - and you will most likely argue that that is the case, but how long will it be until we start scoping around for three? More than that - how many twos came before me? Of course I shouldn’t care, and I don’t, but it is critical here that you understand my point.

Women are not some throw away toy that you fuck and forget and grab another to satisfy your “please make me feel better about myself” fit. Well, maybe some are and they paint their lips special for their shelf date, but that is not me. That will never be me. I know myself well enough to know that it isn’t just about liking it when I am number one -- no -- I NEED to be number one. That is right - I need to be the Queen, because the lesser stature doesn’t jive with me.

Now here is the deal - not everyone can be Queen to everyone - do you know what I mean? I mean that I cannot be Queen to every guy that I meet - only a select few, and that I understand, accept, and say please and thank you. Here is the important part - you must be included in that select few. If you are not, will not, or refuse to be -- well then, the bottom absolute sea level line is that you cannot be with me. Harsh? I don’t give a shit. So I am a bitch because I refuse to give in or say “please sir, knock your boots around on me some more?”

Well, the tricky dicky duck to this, sir, is that I stood tall and declared (a long time ago) that I will be no one’s whipping post anymore. Tragic? No, the most tragic thing you could throw at me is that others refuse to love themselves enough to let others be kind while opening their arms to the small gifts that are given every damn day in this life. You can slap a yellow corn label on that statement if you like, but the truth of it is is that I am not that girl anymore. I deserve more than just a daily smile - I am worth a glow. That’s right - I love myself enough to know that the sun can shine in my corner alone and it wouldn’t be a waste of the light.

So here is where we have a problem. You see, you take me for the kind of woman (girl?) who doesn’t know her own worth. In return - you are a selfish, thoughtless, and insensitive bastard. Well, maybe not bastard, but I am less than impressed.

I mean, really, four weeks and you can’t even spring for dinner or take me somewhere unexpected and sweet? Really?

Well, you are a jukebox of sweet talk and I have a pocket full of quarters, but I am tired of feeding the beast my change. I am tired of hearing but never feeling just how wonderful I am. Action, my dear - you need a little more action to bring your lady some satisfaction. Dig or dive or dunk. We are done.