I’ve decided that my favorite thing to do with you is randomly text you out of nowhere, delete it immediately after, feel stupid, and then pretend it never happened. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve done this since we last saw each other. It’s gotten to the point where I almost don’t even feel bad about it anymore. I said almost.
You know how something is just so fucked up to the point where you feel as if it can’t get anymore fucked up? Like you’ve already done every possible thing you could do wrong, so it doesn’t even matter anymore? Well congratulations, you are my go-to for bad decisions.
See, I have this theory that although is ridiculous, also makes perfect sense in this warped ass head of mine. With other men, I have a clean slate. I still have room for mistakes, so I have more to lose. Thus, I have more incentive to quit while I’m ahead. It’s easier for me. But with you, there really wasn’t much more I could do to make it worse … until I asked you if you wanted me to leave you alone and you said, “YEA.” Well congratulations, I found a way to make it worse.
I designed my own catastrophe. I built it from the ground up, picked out curtains, painted the trim, then imploded that bitch. And I’m going to be as bold as to say I did it on purpose. Because I knew that if I took it beyond the point of no return, there would be no looking back afterwards. But we all know that love can be blind.
I could’ve easily quit while I had some sort of dignity left in me, but I’m stubborn as shit. Not to mention foolish, and reckless, and fucking retarded. Making myself feel worse in order to feel better has worked pretty well in the past, but it shouldn’t warrant or encourage the emotional cutting. Sometimes it’s never enough until there’s nothing left, but it still doesn’t make things right.