After some time to think, Fender has realized that whatever pressure he’s feeling is not coming from me. I do care for him, so I’ll admit that I’m glad he’s back, but after this I don’t view him the same way. It’s the first time, and hopefully the last, that I’ve pitied him. It’s not so much about him as it is about the environment he’s grown up and tried to have a love life in.
It’s easy for me to say that someone should have come out of certain experiences unscathed, but I haven’t exactly come out like a champ either. Underneath my patently chill surface seethes a monster just waiting for sufficient levels of self pity to override her prime directive.
She has a beak of gold, a silver tongue, and a hydraulic vagina. She is my inner non sexual whore. Some guys say that there’s a little whore in every woman. Well, mine is honest enough to admit that if she ever took over, sex would be the last thing on her mind, and manipulating vulnerable people into turning over their cash would be the first. Every time a new trend is on the horizon, she thinks of many ways to exploit sheeple with it.
As an example, some years ago I started thinking of designs for butt crack shavers. You’ll know I have lost my ethics when I start marketing them. You’ll know I have basically blasphemed the Holy Spirit when the electric version comes out.
So I must forgive Fender his momentary lapse into dealing-with-spider-hoes-ness. He has a right to his suspicions and fears as I do mine. We should both just not let those paralyze our relationship. He’s found out that I’m not into micromanagement of grown men, and I’ve found out that he values me enough to stick around to find that out.
The game is indeed over. Now things are getting serious.