So, you’ve found another broken man – perhaps he was lifting weights at your gym or he drove the Lyft you took to the airport last week or his Tinder profile pic was so cute you couldn’t help but swipe right. Or maybe you already have a man and recently discovered his “Check Man” light flashing. No matter where you found him or how long you’ve had him, if he’s broken, chances are you’re worried, and rightfully so. After all,
If I owe the life I’ve lived to any one thing, it’s birth control (followed closely by chocolate, divorce, herds of wiener dogs, and the ability to cut you with my words.) From the Pill, to condoms, to running out of the room screaming, “Not tonight, I have a ruptured ovarian cyst,” the ability to decide if and when I might like to have a bun in my Easy-Bake Oven has influenced everything I’ve aspired to and achieved in my
We’d been seeing each other on and off for years, he living in a different country, me moving from my country to yet a third place. The wonders of international Internet dating. Once a year, we would meet in a darkened room, reconnect, hungry for some decent sex and humor and walking and eating. Free from our lives for a couple of days. He was so busy, we couldn’t manage more than that. Then we finally managed to meet, unexpectedly,
Embarrassingly enough, 90% of my therapy woes revolve around a very uncool topic for a self-proclaimed feminist: men. What keeps my neurotic head above water during these dead-end relationships is reading the words of trailblazing women. Except for Eleanor Roosevelt. She can fuck off. “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent,” she once said. Ok, but did she ever date a psychopath? Also, I doubt Eleanor was ever ghosted. And did she have to search Urban Dictionary for three-letter acronyms
