Indifferent to moral restraints; given to immoral or improper conduct; licentious; dissipated :: Synonyms: corrupt, loose, debauched, wanton, abandoned.
Ok, forgive any formatting issues, I’m doing this from my phone (I can’t login to my WP dashboard).
This week has been great. Since my breakthrough in therapy everything in my life feels easier. Everything. From cutting out sugar to cutting out men. I suddenly have a place in my own world and I’m no longer chasing anything or anyone.
That said, I don’t think I’m “fixed,” or anything, I just feel righteous in the best of ways.
I have a Saturday night free this weekend. The Rich Golfer is out of town for a family event, Peter’s dad is in town, and The Vet may have a work thing. I’m cool with whatever, but regardless of men sharing my bed/time I’ll have a great night.
I would have said the same thing 6 months ago, but this time it feels a whole lot different. I dig it.
Ok, on with the boobs! This week I’m posting two old ones. Since I’m on my phone I’m unsure of the dates, but they were just a couple of lines above the one from last week in my WP photo library, so I’m guessing they were from May of 2012.
I’m posting the first one because it was me at a painful worst in my life. I can’t even remember the specifics of that particular self harming without the date (I’ve only done it twice), but it speaks volumes about how far I’ve come. My poor old soul… I feel badly for what I’ve done to her sometimes.
The second photo of me is one where I was feeling myself. The backlit silhouette, the curves. It was taken just a few days before the first pic (based on its location on the photo grid).
1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR
2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.
Also, just as a reminder:
If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)
Tell me why you chose the photo you sent
And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!
My tits:
A little self never harm anybody… wait, what?
In just a short while this woman’s heart would break for some reason.
NOT my tits:
Sandy has an important message for us!
Before I forget again this week….Had a sudden hair dye reaction that was unpleasant and had me rushing to urgent care. Then even more unpleasant allergy testing. PSA to all the ladies in your group “do the damn patch test!!”
Anyway, just a lazy day pic
::
Y’all are inspiring Miss B!
I wish to submit this binding picture as a way to show off/celebrate my great boobs.
I thought of this picture due to another person’s binding picture recently on your site.
I don’t understand women who like their fathers, who trust them and turn to them for support. Fathers are dark and dangerous, manipulative and cruel. They froth at the mouth at infractions and cry, salty tears when they need a hug from the mother they never had. Fathers whose daughters like them are mystical creatures.
Men who love and nurture their little women in ways that create strong, healthy bonds and boundaries for a lifetime of beautiful relationships? Those exist??
I certainly didn’t have one of those. Fathers and daughters who love and respect one another are only people who exist in books and movies and who are overheard in coffee shops. They’re not me and my dad.
I don’t bring it up all that often, but no one without daddy issues would have a life like mine. She would never accept what I do from men. She would assert herself and say No, she would insist on her needs being known and valued. She would never stand for mistreatment. But that isn’t me. I have daddy issues.
Even saying the words makes me cringe. It’s so trite, so predictable, but there it is. I have daddy issues the size of a goddamned 747.
I wept in therapy a week and a half ago as I pieced together my disastrous date with Milwaukee. After having sex with him Thursday night that I don’t really remember, I went home to sleep it off and when I returned to his hotel room to go to brunch he accosted me.
His breath smelled of liquor at 11 am and as I pushed him off of me repeatedly he kept after me with lurid promises of what he’d do to me later. He thought he was being sexy. I thought he was being boorish and disgusting.
I pushed him, shoved him, told him I wasn’t a sure thing and to knock it off. Then he jammed his finger up my skirt as I peered out a window and almost got inside of me before I twisted away and yelled at him again. “After he assaulted you, why didn’t you leave, Hy?” my therapist asked gently.
I couldn’t answer her.
“Where did you feel it? Where did it come from? This knowing it was wrong?”
“I don’t know. I just knew I didn’t like it. I was very clear about him stopping and I yelled at him. But then I went downstairs with him to wait for a car to go to brunch…” I looked up at her watching me. “Then he said something else disgusting and I jumped up like this and shouted, ‘STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT I DONT FUCKING LIKE IT!!'” I demonstrated for her, something I don’t think I’ve ever done in years of working with her.
“He apologized and looked contrite. I should have left then. I should have left in the room. I should have left when I woke up with a vague sense of irritation and unpleasantness naked in his bed. But I didn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” I said as I began to cry. I had this overwhelming familiar feeling related to my reaction to him. There were moments in his room that morning when fear rose up in me. Would he rape me? Hurt me? But they quickly passed as I danced and maneuvered away, but still remained within his reach.
When I’d shared the date with him with two of my dearest friends, one said this:
I think the most important question you have to answer for yourself, Hy, is why you don’t trust your gut? Why do you plot the course and then follow all the way through to an inevitable conclusion when you knew he wasn’t a good fit? Is it because you’re curious, because you desire the sex/companionship regardless of the quality, or because you feel you owe it to someone not to “back out” once the process starts?
Our message string is deleted that far back but I clearly remember saying to you, when someone is lousy over text/phone it’s never good in person, and you were not acknowledging your gut feelings. You kept saying maybe it will be better in person. You kept reaffirming what you believed his good qualities were and that he deserved a chance.
I’m checking you on this because it was quite clear to me he was acting in an odd and uncomfortable way and despite your acknowledgment of this you insisted on pushing through to the date. Why is that?
Maybe it’s a FOMO thing, you just have to be 100% sure you’re not “missing” something and so you go all the way until you can no longer deny that it was bad to begin with. But that isn’t trusting your gut is it? That’s more like being a scientist, running the experiment until you have the hard fought data which ultimately proves the initial hypothesis.
I told her she had every right to check me, that everything she wrote was true, but my internal compass is off. Though my gut is always right I continually override it. Why??
“Tell me why you didn’t leave,” my therapist pressed.
“Because I wanted something from him…” I sobbed, humiliated, hurting. “We were supposed to go to my favorite brunch spot, then my favorite restaurant for dinner.
“It was like that with my father. I would be trapped with him in a booth and he’d be telling me disgusting things or droning on and on about himself as if I were there simply to listen to him and I’d be begging him to stop, to see me, but I needed new tires on my car or I wanted that fancy dinner or some spare cash.
“I endured his awfulness so he could give me things and I could feel taken care of by him for once in my life, to feel loved.” My whole body shook with remorse and disgust and shame. “If he gave me something, then it proved I was good enough. That’s why I never leave.”
The feelings for the girl I was welled up inside of me and poured out my face. I felt like blackness rose from me like steam. No matter how awful, how gross, how in appropriate my father was I stayed the course because we both knew I was there to get something from him, and him from me. And I was never able to make him stop despite my efforts to make him be a decent human being to both me and my sister.
When I was 20 I cut him out of my life for a couple of years after a long visit of his prolonged vileness and him rifling through all of my things while I was at class. I eventually let him back in, feeling stronger, and even lived with him for a year after college. It wasn’t good. He was mean and hard, but I was living rent free, so…
And then when I was 26 he sent my sister and I a revolting joke about how semen is calorie-free. It was the final straw and I cut him out of our lives for good. Shortly thereafter, my sister revealed he’d molested her when she was only 8 years old and I was 11. Now our relationship was irrevocably over and I no longer had to suffer his pitiful attempts at being my father.
Daddy issues.
I’ve never really read much about the collateral damage of sexual abuse for a child not directly harmed. Do those papers even exist?? I’ve read countless articles on trauma and personal accounts of abuse, I hear stories on NPR for Christ’s sake, but you don’t hear how it affects the other children in the family.
From the moment my father did that evil thing to my sister I no longer existed. I never understood why I was suddenly #2 in everything we did, why he preferred her, why she was always right and I was always wrong. I longed for his approval and love, but was shunned again and again. He had sins to atone for and I was no longer a priority. I was his made his mother, and used whenever he needed support. When he didn’t need me I was invisible. And so it went until the day he died an excruciating death, alone in a big city in the desert.
My therapist’s eyes were soft as she watched me, tear streaked and miserable fit the pieces together. That is why I never leave. That is why I override my instincts. That is why I stay near a man who doesn’t care to be with me. Because I want something from them and if I get it it means I am worthy. I fucking exist.
Sometimes it’s a nice dinner, sometimes it’s sex. My father put a high premium on a woman being a “knockout.” I never felt I attained that level with him, but when men ogle and drool I feel vindicated and seen all over again. I am real for that moment. I push aside a man’s poor manners or inconsiderateness because he has promised me something – unspoken, but promised all the same. I will get his attention, his money, his body, his pleasure.
That means that I have evolved into the ultimate seductress, ever morphing to match the desires of my date. I prefer white wine, but he has expressed a preference for Malbec, so that is the only kind of wine I buy when I come over. He wants to watch golf? Ok. I will ask as many questions as possible, though really I’d prefer the TV to just be off. I have no impact, I am not there, but when I am turned inside out, bare skinned and lost in my own broken darkness with a man deep inside of me I am all of me.
I am not thinking about how to win him over, I am only a raw, pulsing nerve feeling our atoms mingle. Finally, I exist again by losing myself completely.
It feels like this revelation is what I’ve been working towards in the last 20 years of therapy I’ve been slogging through. I have been trying to close the loop with my father every day of my fucking life since the moment he touched my baby sister. I have been trying to be seen and loved and wanted in any way I knew how. And boy, have I adapted. I have been a machine at getting things.
In the days leading up to this revelation I cut things off with Milwaukee. I was very frank with him about how I felt about his behavior and while he was crushed, he understood. It is one of the most singularly healthy things I’ve done for myself since I ended my friendship with The Neighbor or left my husband. I don’t look out for myself, the drive to get something is so overwhelmingly powerful. I am terrified of asserting myself, saying No, that is not ok, and then being rejected and failing to get whatever it is I want.
The Saturday after therapy the The Golfer got too drunk on the golf course with the help of a Xanax and canceled plans an hour before we were set to meet. My initial reaction was to completely accept it and reschedule for the next weekend – the words flew across text before I even realized what I’d done. Hours later I texted again that while it’d taken a little while to sink in I thought flaking on me in the 11th hour was shitty and that it really bummed me out.
The next morning he apologized and last night as we lay curled together on his big couch between dick-sucking and ass-fucking goodness he apologized again with his lips on my neck.
It was terrifying to admit I was unhappy with him, such a small, reasonable thing, but I don’t do that: I am amenable, pleasing, ingratiating. Yet, I was still there whole and real and I had promised myself that if he didn’t apologize – truly apologize – I would end it immediately. But he did and I took a very small step towards being me and not just trying to get something. I existed without the thing.
My week has been filled with work and my baby, not being able to fall asleep until 1 am and finally passing out at 9:30 last night. I woke up at 5:30 today and nearly jumped out of bed. I wrote for the Smut Marathon, though didn’t get a chance to write here. I’m waffling between where to go with my thoughts.
Do I share the awful experience I had with Milwaukee? The absolutely incredible night I had with The Golfer since my last post about him? Or one of the most powerful breakthroughs I’ve ever had in therapy?
I’ll figure something out this weekend or today for sure. I have lots to say.
I’m posting a vintage pic of me since I haven’t taken a photo basically since my week in England.
Love you guys and your support. I’m reading everyone as usual and I think you’re all incredible.
xx
Hy
Me in April of 2012.
NOT my tits:
Miss B with another pretty black bra.
This is just a beautiful, unique bra that gives the boobs a great look and lift.
I’ve been wanting to write a lot lately, but have been keeping quiet and just thinking instead. I don’t like it; I need to pour myself out onto the page, to see myself wind through the letters and lines like water through a little ravine.r
The Golfer, the man I met in person one fateful night has significantly highlighted some of my greater faults and weaknesses when it comes to love and relationships, namely that I love a good chase to the exclusion of all else.
I love the thrill of hunting a man and twisting him to my will, the dark heat of seduction and manipulation. I mean no ill will, but I light up at the thought of moving pieces across a board. If I knew any good chess move references, I’d use one here now, but I only know checkmate, and I am wise enough to know that scoring sex is far from the checkmate I really crave.
After our first incredible and drunken night we kept in touch with some basic sexting. A pic here and there, no real communication. Interest was mutual. I finagled a second meeting to return his RayBans, to which he’d shown no real attachment and had even said if we couldn’t coordinate schedules that I could keep them. But I insisted. It was the ethical thing to do!
At his posh house near a golf course 5 miles outside of town (and a 30 minute drive from my house) he met me at the door in jeans, a tee, and barefoot. We hugged and he sniffed my hair and made an appreciative sound. I was sober and would have to stay that way for the night because of some antibiotics I was on; he had imbibed with some golf buddies earlier and he vibrated sex and oozed an easy confidence.
We sat in a separate sitting area with a record player and candles flickered around us. His floofy dog made bids for attention while he rubbed my feet and we talked and laughed.
He massaged my feet with candle wax and sucked my toes and took me out back on his little patio and insisted I sit on his lap while we shared a cigarette, my occasional vice.
In his room he ravaged me and his cock stayed hard for hours, magically. “Did you take something for this?” I panted, spent and cum dumb, my hand absentmindedly joy-sticking his dick.
“No. I swear. You’re doing this to me!”
We fucked all night long, my cum soaking the bed just like he’d been begging me for all week on our phones. Sideways, backwards, standing, sitting. On his insistence I’d brought my vibrator and as I sat on his hips I rocketed out my skull with a body-shaking orgasm, pouring my soul all over the bed sheets. I would have cried for mercy had I any water left in my body.
He gently washed me in the shower and the bubbles were slick under his hot hands, his cock still unbelievably hard.
We fell asleep after one more long and punishing fuck with a movie on his big screen tv, sprawled in his king sized bed.
I slept fitfully. There were moments throughout our coupling – with him inside of me – where I thought This can’t possibly be real. He’s going to cum then tell me to leave, that it was all just a big joke. He’s far too hot for me, too rich, too successful. These thoughts ticked through my mind as I fell asleep cradled in his arms.
The next morning I woke before dawn. I had to get home to let the dog out.
He got up with me and pulled me down on the couch for one last cuddle. His hand found my pussy and dug inside. I came almost instantly.
Without a word he stood up and I followed him into his room, dropping my panties along the way. He took me one last time from behind with a grinding, gripping dump of cum on my back.
I showered quickly once more and he walked me to the door and gave me a long hug goodbye. I drove with the windows down, the sun fully risen, my panties in my purse, and my mind racing.
I left for London the following Wednesday thinking about him. Neither of us could believe that the second time was at least as good as the first and we were still in disbelief over the first time, drunken or not.
We texted a little here and there over the course of my trip. He’s not much of a texter, but he couldn’t wait for me “to cum back.”
We made plans for me to come over that first Saturday I was home. How do I like my steak? Mooing.
I stopped and bought two bottles of wine and arrived in jeans and a tee with the dog. “Yes, bring him,” he’d said. I wouldn’t have to rush off this time.
The night flowed like the last time. He cooked two filets and baked potatoes with a salad. We ate at his dining room table, a first ever for him, and chatted and laughed about fuck knows what. It was easy and fun and exciting.
It started with another foot massage and led straight to the bedroom. We fucked and fucked until we could fuck no more.
“I had such big plans for you tonight,” he whispered huskily in my ear, “but you’ve derailed them all. I was going to tie you up, but I just can’t get enough of you…”
I purred and cuddled closer, pulled him into every hole I had and screamed with lust as the pleasure of this kindred spirit poured over me while he was buried deep in my ass. I watched him above me, eating me alive with his eyes, grimacing with his own elation. My bellybutton filled with my cum as the room filled with sounds of my orgasm.
“I wonder if it will always be like this,” he mused, collapsed beside me.
“We could find out.”
“Let’s do it Monday,” he suggested. It was Saturday night.
We cleaned up under a hot rain and he asked if I’d ever had a golden shower. My answer was to shake my head No and offer him my back side. He smiled wickedly and peed on my rump as the clean water and piss mingled down my legs to the drain.
“I’ve had two ‘firsts’ tonight,” I said back in bed lying in his nook. “I came on my back while getting fucked in the ass and I got a golden shower. I didn’t know I still had ‘firsts’ left in me!” I couldn’t stop smiling into the candlelight.
“I’m happy I could help.”
Our dogs had romped happily during our sex breaks outside and mine whined the night away as he was locked out of the bedroom, but we slept soundly and as dawn broke once again we fucked and bathed again and then he made us coffee.
He was quieter now and put golf on the tv. I sipped his coffee and sat beside him, sensitive to the new vibe. I didn’t have to rush off this time, but I didn’t feel welcome to stay, but stay I did because it felt silly to run off when it was unnecessary. I didn’t want to acknowledge the shift.
Determined to end on a high note, I rubbed the bulge in his red sweat pants and it immediately hardened. I pushed the coffee table away and knelt between his knees and took him in my mouth, fat and hard.
He moaned and gently touched my hair. “Let’s go to my room.”
We hadn’t touched the vibrator the night before, but it lay on the ground on his side of the bed like a long-tailed lizard. I pressed it to me as he pounded me from behind and came mightily. His skin glistened with sweat and I pushed him on his back, crawled up his legs and licked me off of him and sucked every last bit of jizz right out of him.
He shook and got quiet. I licked my lips and got up to redress.
Back on the couch, with more coffee in hand, I tried to engage him. I asked questions about golf, his Game of Thrones encyclopedia that lay like a brick on the coffee table. He answered, but showed no interest in the connection. The dogs irritatingly played on top of us and he kicked them outside.
When it finally felt like time to leave – after 3 too many cups of coffee – he hugged me goodbye, but deflected the kiss I attempted. His lips fell on only the corner of mine. I drove home with the windows down again, but my heart wasn’t light. Something was off. And I’d left my vibrator behind deliberately on accident.
The following three days opened up to nothingness. We did not meet up on Monday or any other day. He explained that it was a week-night and he couldn’t fuck like on a weekend, but I could “swing by anytime” to retrieve my vibrator. He was also going out of town that weekend.
I suggested we get together the weekend after. He said he should be around. Slightly defeated, but not wanting to let on, I told him to send nudes with a smiley face. He sent a winky face. Since there was no urgency to see me again, I just ordered a new vibrator instead. I’d see him when I saw him, I supposed.
It’s been two weeks since that text exchange and I haven’t heard from him.
Last night as I parked a few empty spaces away from The Neighbor’s car it hit me again that our entire 3-year relationship was mostly a product of my will, my plotting, my sheer seduction of him and manipulation of the situation. He never wanted to date me and yet I moved us both across the board in spectacular fashion because I wanted him and nothing would stop me.
If I pursue TG while he is doing whatever it is he’s doing I will be contaminating the data. How can I tell if he wants to spend time with me if I am fiddling with our dynamic? How can I know if I want to spend time with him if I don’t allow him to show me more of who he is?
The Prime Directive of dating here should have always been, Let him show you who he is. Let him show me he wants me. Rather than Hunt, chase, devour, win! But I guess I’m a really slow learner and old habits die hard. I need to fucking chill out and set my Seduction Level to zero.
So I have sat on my hands for two weeks and not said a peep. I’ve felt hurt, confused, indignant, sad, hopeful, relieved, strong, weak, proud, humiliated. I won a bet with a friend that I wouldn’t hear from him in a week. My heart felt brittle and black.
When that next weekend that we might have met up came and went with no word I stayed the course, remained quiet. I would not meddle.
And then I just re-read our last texts.
They were friendly, soft, not not interested, so I softened a little and felt my interest rise again. I decided to place my piece back on the board, though with no strategy in mind, with a funny, sexy, innocuous text Hello.
I feel like I am observing myself in the wild. What will Hy do now that she has peeked her head out from behind the Saharan bush and identified her target?
I guess we’ll see what his next move is and where I end up on the board. Also, he was probably just thinking about his golf game and taxes for the last two weeks.
[Ed. Note: the title is from Kenny Roger’s song The Gambler:]
I’ve been in a super funk all week. I even bought a pack of smokes, which I have done only twice before in the past 4 years. So that should tell you something about my mental state.
Lemme just give a quick update and I’ll fill in the gaps later:
The Golfer – the drunken hookup – and I have met up twice more. Both glorious. Of course now he is ignoring me.
Milwaukee – A guy I met on Seeking Arrangement because apparently I lost my mind for about 5 days and reactivated my account for no good reason, but turned out to be a total surprise of a human. He’s flying down next week to see me for a couple of days.
Peter – my longtime FWB – came over last Friday and we had a proper date and fucked like monkeys. In my butt. I loved it.
The Dom – a 50-something fella I stumbled on on AFF who also is on Fet. Obviously being openly submissive is NOT my thing, but we met for coffee before I left for London and he emanated dominance and it felt so warm and lovely. We’re meeting for wine next week.
The Vet(erinarian) – another AFF discovery. He’s a GenXer like me and also wants to see me soon. We’ll see.
She doesn’t know why no one wants to date me. Four men in my whole life have ever wanted to and obviously none of those were the best fit. Hundreds have wanted to fuck me, though. They’re lining up practically.
“If they actually knew you, Hy, they’d want to! Not that they’d know you like I do, but…” her voice trailed off. “But you are so sexy and so big. I don’t think most men can handle it.”
Her little blue eyes sparkled at me surrounded by wrinkles.
“Everyone wants to date Hy,” I said, “and that’s the real me. I just don’t know how to get anyone to get to know me in real life.
“I don’t have any opportunities. Work isn’t an option and when I don’t have Pey I work long hours. All I have is online – like everyone else – but how can anyone know me in one date or in 4 weeks? It’s all set up for me to be meaningless to them.
“Look at Early Afternoon Lunch Guy. There’s a reason I didn’t program him in to my phone. What’s the fucking point??”
I began to tear up when I told her I’d programmed my Saturday night lay into my phone. The Golfer. His real name is almost a “Chad.”
We’ve been sexting a little. An auspicious start to nothing, I’m sure. Nothing says “future relationship,” like, “I want your cumm [sic].”
The man from Saturday, The Golfer, has been flirting with me and I honestly can’t figure out why.
In the harsh Tuesday morning light I look at myself and don’t see much worth physically desiring. He was drunk, that’s how he ended up in my bed, otherwise why would a gorgeous 35 year old man want my middle aged and rapidly sagging-where-it-never-used-to-sag ass?
It’s not the right time of the month for me to be feeling this way – I can’t quite make sense of it – except that I must still have an emotional hangover from that night.
He came and sat with Tina and me already drunk, but massively charming nonetheless. I watched her drape herself all over him and flirt like she was drowning, but I sat in between them and seemed to inadvertently block any real foreplay between the two of them.
He was there for something, but he wouldn’t quite come out with it. Then he told us he’d hit a major professional milestone, a jackpot, if you will. I heard him say “multi-millionaire.”
Tina, lover of millionaires that she is, perked up and convinced him to order the most expensive bottle of bubbles on the menu then left to go to the restroom. Now just the two of us, I inquired further about the moment for him.
“I’m gonna get sad for a minute,” he said with his head in his hands, “then I’ll be ok.”
I rubbed his back a little and told him it was alright, not entirely sure what he was about to say and not wanting to get overly invested in a drunk stranger’s drama.
“I mean no offense, but today is a really big day for me and I’m spending it with two women I don’t know.”
His friends, nearly as drunk as him, had tried to pry him away to go home earlier, but he’d refused. “I never leave the house, I don’t date, I’m totally alone and I had no one to share this with. Not really. I just tagged along with them, crashed their date.” I kept rubbing his back.
“I know how that feels,” I replied. “Take a deep breath and just enjoy tonight. It’s how I do it.”
Tina returned with her signature bad attitude and the moment was over. We were at a swanky hotel, after all, drinking Veuve Cliquot. The tears would have to wait.
That’s not a normal convo to have with a random drunk dude.
Maybe that’s why I went ahead and programmed his name in my phone, for the simple fact that I’m sad, too. I’m sad that I’m alone and drifting, bouncing from hookup to hookup like a skipped rock on the Lake O’ Many Mens.
I haven’t programmed a name in so long I barely remember the last time. It must have been Elliot, and before that Luke? God, I don’t even know. Both men who for whatever reasons didn’t want to be with me in the end.
As TG and I fucked each other senseless in the soulless black of my room it seemed we both held on for dear life. I wept from the sheer force of pleasure coursing through my body and he acted high on the perfume of my ejaculate and cries.
He flipped me over and licked my asshole and bit my cheeks, he pounded my pussy with his cock and his hands and buried his face between my legs like a starving man with a mouth made of the softest petals.
And then he texted the next day and tried to convince me to come over so we could do it all again. Not only was I hungover and recovering emotionally, but I felt embarrassed. Would he even want me in the light of day? Is it even worth my time even if he did?
He’s tried to get me to come over each night since. He’s funny, awkward, viciously self deprecating, and from what he said at the hotel, hates his mother.
It might appear that he’s one to avoid without question, yet his name is in my phone all the same because I’m sad, too, and for just a minute I’d also like to pretend that someone cares I exist.
