A recent epiphany

I’ve decided that I don’t ever want to have an affair with a married man.

Its just so… 32 year old bank teller who lives in Monterey and drinks white wine and considers her coworkers her best friends.(side note: I am fully aware that in five years I will probly be this bank teller, if not because of karma from the previous statement, then simply through pure determination on my part).

I used to think of affairs as so defining. When I was younger, I was actually jealous of all the girls in my grade who were fucking teachers- what a great story for the grandkids, I would think. What an event, to have an affair with a teacher. Then, when I was older, it was the professors, what a thing that would be. All the cool girls did it. I was never that cool. I never cared about grades or even sex in general, much less my own grades or having sex myself. And then I felt shame. It was some sort of confusing status-quo that I think I made up in my own head, one that everyone else, none I knew, but all the others were living up to but I could never. I just thought that that was what edgy, self-defining girls did, and I so wanted to be that girl, with that story.

Not so much anymore.

In reality, I don’t think I want to watch some flabby bastard’s shadow pumping up and down through the tv-light of two and a half men reruns flickering against my wall, or against any wall for that matter.

After years of cheating, secrets, loveless sex coupled with rampant drug abuse, I’ve realized that these were all my equivalent of that lost story of an affair. And really, though I’m very good at embellishment and have made these stories quite worthy of being told at my friends parties to their refreshing chagrin, I’ve also realized that they are just as empty as I never thought was possible.

So, yeah. My dreams of fucking a married dude, a dude in power, or whateves, they’ve all but died- much in the same way as most of my dreams:

I realized they were fucking retarded.