Last April, my boyfriend of 2 years and I called it quits. I’m lying actually, HE called it quits and I moved out a month later. I don’t care about the details anymore, they are not significant. The only triumph I hold from that warm April night was that the world did not end for me, even after being so sure it would have if anything ever happened to our relationship.
I won’t say I particularly thrived in the following months. My ex seemed insanely regrettable and sad and I was not yet open-minded enough to understand why. Looking back, I know he was truly routing for our relationship to prevail at some point. He missed dearly a girl he had fallen recklessly in love with, a girl I could not be for him in the domestic, calm lifestyle we created with each other.
For a while thereafter, I spiraled endlessly down a rabbit hole of mania and substance abuse. I stayed out late, went to bars almost every night of the week, lost 20 pounds and flaunted a new, bold, and often crass personality filled with self-sexualization in the form of jokes and relentless sarcasm. I worked around a warehouse filled with men that shamelessly stared at my chest, my legs, and what was left of an ass that I had all but starved away.
Still, my true conversative sexual nature was not to be challenged, and I opted for appearing promiscuous rather…
