The lowdown dirty on those lowdown dirty ho’s.
I had an interesting discussion with my friend yesterday.
Nothing new, really. We have the same conversation often. Me vs. her. Her ideas regarding the love of her lives. And mine.
Yup. I said lives. Because I believe we’ve been here before.
Alas, this isn’t an entry about reincarnation, though.
I’m anti-girlfriend. She’s not. She’s pro-ho.
Ha. I’m being sarcastic. She doesn’t REALLY refer to women in that vernacular.
I do.
But hey, you’ve been here before, so you already know that I’m a crude ass.
“Dee,” she asks, “Don’t you want to fall in love?”
I’m a smart woman, yet I still doubt the true weight of that question.
How the fuck would I know? What does that mean?
Does it mean that I’m outrageously jealous of any encroachment on my perceived property? Does it mean that I’d not put my hands in a passionate way on another? Does it mean that I’d force co-habitation and U-Haul rentals?
That’s what it DID mean. I thought that relationships meant that I’d have to live and love and touch and dream and walk and fall and trip and adore and be saddled with only ONE woman.
Does that sound appetizing to you?
I’d much rather have a ho to row than a row to hoe.
Wouldn’t you? Maybe not.
I failed each and every time I tried to seriously partner-up.
Until about 6 years ago.
I’d had it with freakin’ relationships. I just couldn’t do them right. I’d been slapped and kicked and pushed and plummeted over the edge.
A light finally lit up over my pea brain. Oh, to have 20/20 foresight.
Dee, I said. You don’t want a relationship, do you? Do you really want to fu** the same woman for the rest of your life? HELL NO!
Do you want to eat the same pizza every damn day for all eternity?
Nope. I don’t.
Here’s what I want: Many different experiences with many different people. Not to say that I myself, am a promiscuous ho. I’m not. Hey, I have standards, somewhere. I think. Ha. There’s not been a romantic visitor to my house for almost a whole year! AND, not just ‘cuz my laundry is in the living room, either.
I leave a lot. My suitcase barely has time to cool before I’m off again. Not simply because of my past, but because it’s my job. I gotta go. It’ll be my future, too.
I don’t want to miss anyone. Not you, not him, not her, not it.
I wanna be missed. It feels better, safer.
I don’t want a relationship with anyone other than my sister, my nieces, my friends, my co-workers, my family of choice, some dogs, cats, spiders and various other creatures. I don’t want any girl to pack up her tooth brush and an overnight bag Hell-bent on my house. Can’t do it.
Don’t want it.
Why?
Ask Ana. She’ll try to convince you that there’s: “Someone meant for you out there.”
But don’t listen. The: “Someone out there for me, is me.”
I can’t do serious with girls. I don’t even wanna try.
It’s not in my genes. Either I’ll do this or you’ll do that and we’ll be miserable.
So please, please all you dreaming people, please, please stop trying to sway me over to your side of your opinions. I don’t share your convictions. And that’s OK.
I know better now. I know my strengths. I know my weaknesses.
I love women. They’re so hot and yummy. But I’ll take y’all one at a time and leave you the same way.
One
At
A
Time.