I hate to be a Negative Nancy, but I’m incensed. I didn’t ask The Douche for much in the lines of continuing agreements, post-break up. It’s not like we have child care to think of or alimony. There are no ongoing obligations.
Everyone has the right to their personal sentiments. Believe me, I’m as opinionated as the next gal. I firmly believe that we are made up wholly of our thoughts, ideas, impressions, and beliefs. They make us who we are.
Last night I needed something at Wal*Mart. Yes, I know it’s an evil conglomerate that destroys local economies and exploits the lower class. However, I needed a fan since my bedroom is only slightly cooler than boiling pitch and here in the boondocks there isn’t a surplus of retail options.
Personal space is a big deal to me. I’m not a touchy-feely kind of gal. Sure, human contact is a basic need we all share, but I’m neither prodigious nor public about it. It particularly freaks me out when a stranger takes the liberty of intentionally touching me in any way. (Accidental contact aside.)
So it’s not news that good girls love bad boys. It’s completely senseless, but for some of us it’s a visceral response, even though cognitively we know better.
I’m flattered by all the charitable folks who sent me private e-mails after my last post, expressing the vehement opinion that I am indeed in fact a rose… (For those who are just joining the party click >here< to see the original garden analogy discussion.)