How You Doin’ Blondie?

Sometimes I feel like my love life is so pathetic it’s tangible. Like people can see it just as clearly as they could see a piece of lettuce in my teeth. My relationships with men are so twisted and unhealthy, I don’t ever fully confide in anyone about them, not even Dr. J. And I don’t lie because I’m afraid of what people will say about my lifestyle, I can handle being looked at as the obligatory bimbo indicative of a man’s mid-life crisis. What I can’t handle is people seeing how much of my heart I put into being objectified. On some level, I know he doesn’t really love me, I know I’m just another accessory he bought, but the part of me that wants so badly to be loved, lies to the part of me that knows that I’m not. It’s sick, it’s sad, it’s disgusting, it’s deplorable; I should know better, I deserve better, insert the self-empowering lie of your choice here. But for all those things, for all those wretched, dirty little things that define my relationships with men, the worst, the very worst thing about it all: this is the way it has to be. I am only happy with a man when he devalues me as a person.