So I haven’t written in a while. Tough shit. You know what? I broke my fucking hand so if it takes me longer to type this then you’ll just have to go fuck yourself.

Here is how you know you can’t win: I tried on a pair of sunglasses that make guys like me look cool. I looked cool. In other words, I looked like a fucking asshole and couldn’t possibly justify buying or ever wearing them. So where does that leave me? Uncool. By choice. Which isn’t even something I’ll ever get credit for, and when the cool guy with the asshole sunglasses walks by, that’s who everyone’s going to be talking about. So fuck me.

Here’s the two for 99 cents question (s): why does it make me feel small when I am faced with facets of my lover’s past, and, inversely, why don’t any facets of my past make me feel big? There is no person, certainly no one of any interest, who doesn’t have a past. I got all kinds of past. But thinking about mine only makes me feel like an idiot for missing opportunities, getting bogged down in wastes of time, and failing to learn from my mistakes. Besides, I’d trade my past to rewrite history so that I could be hers always. I know, I know, I’m doomed. But in spite of my rich and exciting history and the purity of my affection, I still crumple when her pre-Hugo experiences come to light. I feel threatened by her high school stories. I’ve never asked about her first kiss. A photo of her with an old boyfriend haunts me.

Which of course begs the question, could I ever love a hooker? That’s some kind of past. I don’t think I could even handle falling for a stripper, and some of them aren’t gagging on pipe night after night. Surely even a dirty sex-merchant can find someone to love them, but how solid does that guy have to be? It’s weird. You like to think of yourself as the one and only, but everybody knows that isn’t true. You’re only ever the current, forever means for now, and true love means she keeps you around long enough to get pregnant so she can love the damn kid instead of you.

Look at the last guy she told she loved. What’s he got but a couple photographs and some ‘remember whens’?

Nothing like a hooker to make a man feel small. Odd. You’d think it’d be the other way around. Least it saves me fifty bucks. I can feel like shit about myself for free.