Tonight I made the mistake of meeting up with a previous friend-with-benefit.
As we lay on his bed and I willed the passion the come, I knew it wouldn’t.
I’m so passed the point where passion is forced. I’d rather not feel it at all than try and force myself to eel something I know I can’t.
What’s the point?
I remember seeing Mr. Will just after young men and dress up on wild nights on the town; it was at that moment I realised I could never love him. The whole thing just looked so childish and desperate.
Do we all eventually reach a point where the thrill of pointless sex becomes dull?
Is it inevitable that we all start yearning for that adult relationship?
Is it odd to enjoy being alone on Valentine’s Day rather than being with someone you don’t really feel attracted to?
By all rules of 20-something single life I’m supposed to be crying myself to sleep. But instead I can’t help but think of how I wish I hadn’t even tried doing anything for Valentine’s Day and just stuck by myself.
The person I was with worships my body. Always praises me and makes me feel good. But I can’t help but think that Jane Austen had it right when she said:
“Is not general incivility the very essence of love?”