Kutoarjo Boys are stupid.
Boys. Are. Stupid.
But if I keep giving boys second and third and twenty-sixth chances, I think that makes me stupid too.
It doesn’t take much to placate me. The occasional call or text. A conversation. An acknowledgement that both you and I are still alive. Really, not much.
Honesty, respect, simple consideration. Really, not much at all.
And yet I find myself in a situation with a boy where I want to rip my hair out.
If I text you and say I’m free in the middle of the week, and you say cool I’ll text you and we’ll hang out when I’m free, and then you never do, no phone call, no message, and my free days go by, with me doing other shit because I have come to expect you to cancel (Did you catch that? I expected him to flake even as I asked to spend time with him.), and an entire week goes by, and I don’t hear from you, so I call you, and no pickup, in my mind one of two things has happened.
1- Are you fucking dead?
2- You just don’t give a shit. Because even if the shit hit the fan, even if your life blew up, even if work or personal affairs exploded in your lap, one short fucking text would be enough. One text to explain why you flaked on me, again. Or one text to say you needed to flake on me again. One text. I didn’t even get a fucking text.
This past weekend at The Floating World, I attended an amazing sermon delivered by Laura Antoniou. Laura Antoniou, by the way, is fucking awesome.
I call it a sermon because that was the disclaimer at the beginning. This was not a discussion, nor a lecture. This was preaching and it was a message we all needed to hear.
Though many things resonated with me, one in particular hit me today on my way back from TFW when I realized he had not contacted me in a week. When I realized he didn’t call or text. When I realized it would be fun to see him but I didn’t expect it to happen, so much so that I planned aftercare absent him knowing he wouldn’t pick up his phone when I called. I didn’t bother leaving a message.
Laura spoke about how we have to take responsibility for the people in our lives, take responsibility for the relationships we’ve been in, examine why these people were in our lives, and what that says about us.
So it got me thinking. Through my work with Doc, we’ve established my skewed vision of love, with my parents as my models. We’ve identified distance, both physically and emotionally. We’ve talked about the doormat nature of my Mother and how I have the tendency to both loathe her actions yet emulate them in different but somehow similar ways.
And so I think of my current situation. I think of being dangled by a hook. I think of being ignored, strung along. I think of all the times I’ve spent with him. And I wonder, is it worth it? Is it worth it to even try? Why do I try? Why do I give a bazillion chances? Has he earned any of them?
And I push back the tears because I know I’m better than that. I deserve more. I am worthy of more.
I didn’t text. I called only once.
I think this is it. I think I’m done with stupid.
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