Almost 10 years in and this is my life. Still trying to convince the person I perceive closest to me into fucking my brains out. Or at least be thought of as being worthy to be fucked-the-shit-out-of. Who knows. It's a stupid rabbit chase. And it's humbling every single time. It's a validation thing. How does a person not have enough of themselves to give on the date they agreed they would give of themselves? If this were an actual job, they would be fired for repeat offensives. How does this keep happening? Simply because I've allowed it to happen for almost 10 years already. Being the nice guy - the how can I make your dreams come true guy - the let me please show you around the United States guy - the please don't work if you hate your job guy - the I'll support you through the next phase of your life guy - but I still can't get some pussy on designated pussy night? Twice a month? GTFOH with that shit.
The short answer is yes, I am entitled to the pussy for up to two full hours of the month - at least. I've lost too many brain cells over the years trying to figure out the correct happiness to pussy ratio that it takes for you add to the household formula, but I'm still dumbfounded almost 10 years later.
And I've voluntarily weathered way too many pussy droughts inside of a decade to still be at this phase after we came to an agreement about how things would go for the new year. It's too early in the year to be this damn disappointed.
And such is marriage.
And you stick around for next year. Cause you're always lucky to have a next year with your spouse.
But it doesn't change the fact that now I'm watching porn out of spite. Spiteful porn watching. How pathetic is that shit? But it's as much satisfaction as I'm allowed.
The frustrating question is always why does this keep happening in my own house? [in a screaming voice]
I could be using this computer time to be productive - like writing this blog post for example - to make up for the unproductive porn time wasted, and I'll think I'll do just that.
BLAOU! [sometimes I make my own noises]
Here it is. Posted. In all it's emotional Drake-esque selfishness. And I hate [I don't use that word loosely] writing on Friday nights. Because that's date night. That's the night I make you forget the laundry still needs to get done. That's the night we make each other forget. Why am I always the appointment who's so easy to cancel at the last minute?
And we're not even dealing with the fact that I require so much vaginal validation, or my sense of male entitlement, or perhaps our mutual resentment on certain subjects - but that's a story for another day. I'm going to [sleep] now.