So Peter has kidney stones. And the pain was so great, the trauma so overwhelming, he couldn’t text me until after he’d gotten his ex girlfriend to drive him home this morning. Never mind he was en route to my house and I texted worried and freaked out several times.
And before I heard from him, I texted The Golfer a hot pic of my breast hanging out while on a walk with the dog this morning. Surprisingly, he responded relatively quickly. He’s still spent from our night together, he said. I’m quite satisfied by that.
I’m having conversations with Peter in my car and kitchen, with The Golfer in my office and on my couch. Of course they can’t hear them, but it’s where I am strongest and most clear: Do not mistreat me! I say. Do not make me feel insignificant and worthless! I will not stand for it!
I’m fighting the urge to ask The Golfer to spend the Fourth or July with me poolside and in my bed. He will only say No.
And then I remember that giving them access to me despite how they’ve treated me is a hand written permission slip signed by me to keep doing whatever they fucking like.
One, I can handle. The other is going to have to go.