I loved him. I really fucking loved him, didn’t I? And now what. I’ve got nothing to show for all that love I poured into him, which makes me feel like a fool because that means I gave my love away for free. For nothing in return. There’s no house, no kids, no ring, no Facebook albums filled with sunny vacations or even some small trinket I can put on my nightstand and look at when I want to think of him. He gave me nothing but STDs. Yet I still loved him.
I’d like to think that I’m a hopeless romantic, and there’s something whimsical and quixotic about the way that I loved him. I have to think that, because if I don’t think that, I’ll be left with the stark reality of: did I get played? Yeah, I got played. I’m a player in the game, and really, now I’m a loser. I loved a man who never truly loved me back, and here I am, sitting pretty, all done up in lip liner and rhinestones, with my perfectly fat ass that I got after months and months of working out at the gym, and I also have my nice designer hand bag that I bought for myself because I work hard and got a promotion and a raise and I can afford to do nice things for myself like buy $16 cocktails and designer hand bags. Yet I’m the fucking loser.
This doesn’t feel fair. All of this – for what? So he could dick around and make me feel inadequate, even though where’s his designer hand bag, and he doesn’t even have a car, and he could definitely use some time at the gym. I realize now that I am too good to be made to feel like I will never be good enough, especially by a man who is lesser than me. The fucking nerve.