Warning: This work has been rated 18+ for mature content.
Let me show you something.
Take an egg in your hand. Its beautifully matte shell, which glistens slightly in sunlight, is not flawless but it feels perfectly smooth in your fingertips, like a palm-sized lopsided bubble.
Now take the egg and throw it (with gusto) against a wall. You should now have a nice messy splat, perhaps with a few broken shards on the floor.
This is very close to what my heart looked like post break up.
As a result of this mess, my newly jaded Freudian ego has decided to take a vow of complete celibacy this summer.
It seemed like the perfect solution to all my problems. Abstaining from dating would allow me to focus on reorienting, on reconnecting to who I was pre-ex boyfriend. It would give me an opportunity to learn more about myself, to release those inhibitions and finally do all the things I wanted to, like write music (like, with actual notes! And a staff!), or join a theatre troupe. And most importantly, being on my own would allow me the time necessary to heal.
It has been a month.
Boy was this a stupid idea.
It wasn’t so bad when I was going back and forth about whether or not I should finally give the ex the slip. At least my mind was preoccupied with panic and sadness.
Now, it is summer, glorious Tank Tops, Ripped Biceps, and Tanned Bodies Summer. And e’rybody’s startin’ to look reeeaal good.
To be honest I have no idea where this came from, as I was always a fall girl. Something about the crisp autumn air, the earthy smell of dead leaves and fabric softener, just melts my butter.
This week, I found myself skeezin’ on five different guys. One of which was married.
And then there was the cute twenty something that approached the information desk, where I work at my college. He asked where he could purchase his diploma, all dazzling and stuff, and all I could think was, “Your diploma? It’s in that dark, secluded room behind the storage area. Want me to come show you? With my pants off?”
But I digress.
The reality is that I am still pretty jaded. I’m just jaded and randy is all.
The reality is my heart is still very tender, and as such, I have encapsulated it in a bullet proof box, and I’m not opening it no matter how much I’d like to open my legs.
Are all men like the last one? I mean, I know they’re all after one thing, that’s expected. But will they all say whatever it takes to get you into bed? Are they all liars?
I really, really thought the last one cared.
It seems like an excellent time to pack a bag, find a cheap one way flight to the Keys, and perhaps accumulate a few cats.
I can see it now. I will grow up to be Flaky Aunt Mav, the one who wears leather jackets with flip flops, who travels the world writing for some obscure blog, and brings home blood sausage as a gift for her nieces.
See what you did to me Ex-Boyfriend?! This is all your fault!