Taking applications for a travel companion. Looking for my partner in crime.īourbon and scotch. Been single for a while now due to avoidance of drama but I’m ready to put myself back out there for the right girl. My finger presses into a flattened mouth to pull it left or right. The last few years have been like this: a cord of twined images of white boys with plastic glasses and plaid shirts and bad posture and two-thirds-full pints on outdoor bar tables. The book says the collected memories are like pixels in a digital image we store of the only person we believe can close the wound. The self-help book says the brain turns all that has happened to us into points. I have a highlighter, a composition book, and a pen. Harville Hendrix’s self-help book for wounded singles says there is a riddle wrapped around my heart. The bookstore self-help section, though, said something different: nobody will love me until I engage in sequential self-exploration exercises. I told myself, “I love you,” but I was thinking, You’re the worst. The internet says nobody will love me until I learn to love myself, but the internet never gives instructions.
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