In my nearly ten years as a resident of wordpress, I’ve aimed several times to write about my romantic history because love and liaisons with men occupy a dominant portion of my existence. To this day, I’ve written only a single post on my ex-husband, and managed very few minor mentions of previous boyfriends, and that’s it. I simply couldn’t motivate myself to reminisce and compose pretty pieces on dudes I couldn’t care less about anymore. But if you ask me how things are concerning the jerk who is presently the apple of my eye, half a dozen full posts definitely won’t be enough — if I’m not feeling mortified revealing the current motions of my heart.
There’s something odd in me when it comes to love. It’s hard for me to play games — I can never get the hang of it. I feel better when I leave it to the guy to have the final say as to the state of our relationship or connection. Whenever it’s my call, I feel miserable. It’s an inexplicable nature of mine.
When I get sick and tired of a man’s bullshit, I do things that would make him quite uncomfortable so he’d skedaddle like an imbecilic skunk. Really. And the best way to freak out any guy is to give a hint as to my wish that I be the only one in his heart. Or when I keep stressing to him how much his presence means to me. The expected reaction could be very funny. Such imbeciles.
Very direct here this time: I like good-looking men. Or men who at least were good-looking when they were young. I was brought up by parents who put looks and wealth as the two most important things in life. So I’ve had a lifetime struggling with disposing the mentality that my success is measured only by my beauty and my financial capability. Oh and let me add fame to make it a trinity.
— to be continued (by adding more to this post later bcz I’m busy working right now yet the need to write sth is becoming an urgent matter) —
Bohemian Sentiments 