I’ve had a hard time speaking up for myself. It’s not that I’ve always been oppressed or kept silent—that’s not it. I’ve been afraid. Of disappointing, of hurting someone else, of conflict…
It’s not that I have never voiced my needs; I have. Or I’ve lashed out when I felt they weren’t being met, or rather, I martyred myself like my mother tends to do.
We made our way around the perimeter of the park, watching children play—we said hi to a corgi with a little fat butt and that was great. He was a very good and cute boi.
I told her it felt like she was trying to push me away when she told me I’m never going hiking, you won’t catch me running with you either. My titties are small and shitty…
Maybe she needed me to prove my desire, that I was into her for real. I told her that was exhausting; I told her I liked her, I liked that she was smart and an asshole—I can tell she’s a sweet bean and I said as much.
Well, I’m not seeing anyone else—I can’t jugg—
I cut her off I don’t care. It doesn’t matter to me if you’re seeing anyone until we have ‘the talk’ and this isn’t that talk so I don’t really need to know. What you do on your own time is your business, what I do on my time is my business. You should assume I’m dating other women. She said it didn’t matter to her either and I told her good, then what are we talking about here?
I wasn’t trying to be mean; it’s not difficult, at least not to me. I haven’t decided I like her enough to take the next step. I mean, for fuck’s sake, it’s been four dates.
I told her what was on my mind, let the words hang, and asked her what she felt and thought.
Maybe we’ll find agreement on who the best-written character in The Wire was.