A Slice of Fiction Just for You

Looking at other people’s happy relationships has only spurred constant thoughts filled with a toxic mixture of misery, jealousy and rage. Her years of pseudo-liberated sexuality and promiscuity were only a feeble parade of “look at this!” that would distract other people from the sad thin layer of “I’m so fucking unlovable” that coated everything inside her. 

It’s a pathetic notion, and a luxurious one, too. It’s an idea that many privileged youth wave like surrender flags above their heads, thinking that it gives them a sudden social waiver that exempts them from behaving in a decorous way. Hence the pursuant self destruction, reckless behavior and otherwise irritatingly selfish lifestyle that seems to galvanize so much of pop culture. This is where parties are born, and where they end, too, although just because a party ends doesn’t mean that these feelings of worthlessness are ever sated or mollified by late AMs filled with cocaine and limpid blow jobs. 

They started fucking for no real reason at all. It just kinda happened. And as soon as they started fucking, he started lying to her. The earlier you start lying, the easier it is to continue lying. A good, strong foundation of dishonesty and chicanery is needed to build an even stronger relationship filled with untruths and subtle fibs. 

Of course he was fucking other people. He always had been, and he always will be, and just because she’s someone pretty doesn’t mean that will ever change. He also never used a condom, and he didn’t tell her that he did the same with other girls, too, but after several weeks he managed to mutter something about an “open relationship” to her. He was hoping she was too drunk and tired to put up a fight, but, unfortunately, she caught on and put up quite a fight. 

It was one of those things that she pursued for no real reason she could think of. Of course, she didn’t think about it that much, but, if she had, all signs would have pointed to all previous failed relationships, including but not limited to the last one (which was sexually dull), the one before that (which was emotionally nonexistent), the one before that (which lasted all of two weeks), and so on and so forth. Being young, this particular tryst seemed to vie for the “my self esteem is pretty low, so I’m just going to have the grimiest, dirtiest, nastiest sex with the grimiest, dirtiest, nastiest dude out there.” It was a means for reaffirming her swarming self loathing, a way for her to not do heroin, but to basically reinforce the same psychological misgivings that doing heroin reinforces. It was the sexual equivalent of sitting in some grimey West Oakland trap house and shoving a needle in her arm as a way to forget about the “real” problems. 

Part of her knew he was fucking other people. And that his static drug addiction were making him a physically repulsive person to look at, but they shared a commonality in their broken, bashed, unbeautiful self hatred, which was probably why the formula worked so well for so long. Her friends whispered to her in dark nights at drunk times that in time to come she would regret doing this, but for the right now, it seemed like the only right thing to do. It was a worse punishment than loneliness, and it also made her feel better. 

There are claws all over this relationship, and blood, too, although she is too screaming to notice that she’s the only one bleeding.