The Past Can Set You Free

From here on out, Wednesdays are all about What The Fuck...

It can be What The Fuck…is she wearing?

What The Fuck…is that smell?

What The Fuck…am I going to do with my life?

Or my favorite, What The Fuck…was I thinking?

So to start off, here is an excerpt from my diary (unedited) that really screams WHAT THE FUCK.

It started with a sex message last week. Something along the lines of I want your dick in my mouth. He responded. What man wouldn’t? I should’ve known that very instant that something was up. A man that can respond to sex messages within 10 minutes but ignores “I miss you” is NOT the man for me. But I continued to seduce him with my messages because I’m horny and need to get some dick! And since his DICK has been on the menu for 5 years, I feel its imperative to order and be served an infinite amount of *** DICK (no matter what the cost…).

So we made a sex date for this week.

Dude still wants to fuck me raw, and because I’m completely stupid and utterly in love and have no idea what I’m doing, I oblige his dick and desires by popping my last supply of birth control the moment my flow begins.

I vowed while with the ex to NEVER take that shit again, but with *** I’m open and willing to do anything. The problem is, why am I willing to put my life and health into his hands but I still don’t trust or believe everything he says. What kind of shit is that? I’m educated…book sense, common sense, and know well enough that having unprotected sex with a man who is consistently inconsistent is the worse thing I could ever do in my life, but I still want to.

*end scene*

Yes, I know. You’re screaming at the monitor “What The Fuck!” But hey…sometimes it be like that. Don’t act like you ain’t never let someone hit it raw, hit it raw, or thought twice about not using a condom.

And the birth control stunt is so 90’s, so I’m sure my trick didn’t throw you off. The only thing thrown off by that shit was my damn cycle. After popping them pills, Flow came to visit for TWO damn weeks.

To me therapy is the attempted remediation of a problem, and writing in my diary is just that. It allows me the chance to remember my insane thoughts/desires, so I can later access the situation with a clear mind, heart, and non-throbbing clitoris.

This entry is in no way recent, but SOME of the feelings are still there. It’s so easy to forget what you wore last week, or why you and a friend got into a heated argument, or how head or heels, lost, and blinded you were over a guy.

You remember the crazy shit he did. The shit that pissed you off. Turned you on. Made you cry.

But it’s all to easy to forget the crazy shit you wanted to do with him. Vacations. Marriage. Babies. Unprotected Sex.

It’s like that cliché: How can you know where you’re going, if you don’t know where you came from?

So what I’m saying is, try to remember what you came from so you can either maintain or change and then eventually move on; otherwise your version of therapy doesn’t involve fixing the problem since you can’t remember what the fuck really happened. Its just you forgetting your mistakes and reliving them with another person.