We don’t love the people we fuck, we just bang away and occasionally succumb to the fantasy that this delusional coupling might in some way resemble the sham of love that is expertly marketed to us via Hollywood movies and female razor ads. It’s not tragic, it’s just systemic, but the ennui that accompanies the mindlessness of copulation is the most deadening thing of all. Wake up in the morning and feel nothing while escaping the slurry memories of the night before. Write down names like ingredients in the recipe for disaster. Who am I dumping today and who am I pursuing tomorrow, and then to what means? What happens after I fuck him? Am I just going to keep fucking him? And then at some point it stops, and it’s rinse, wash and repeat while I spew out spiteful stories of yet another exboyfriend subjecting me to the scandalousness of his fetid, broken heart. What a weak man. That is not a man. That is weakness.
Drink alcohol, my sanctified cure all for the lack of remorse that all of this is making me feel. There is Jesus in my bones, and what would I give but to be the whore that fucked Christ himself.
Martyr me, I couldn’t give less of a fuck about all this.