Sabs' Crap-Comedy

Relationship Chain-Smoking

So, at some point I wrote about my dilemma about knowing when to call it quits in a relationship. I’m not going to lie, I sometimes tend to think that our generation regurgitates arguments to sustain its seemingly reasonable commitment issues. Nevertheless, either I’m a constant quitter that shivers when the word forever is mentioned, like my Shih Tzu’s convulsions after a struggling bath, or I was being totally rational when I decided that enough had to be enough. Or both?

Two days of being single, maybe less, and already I’m debating the break-up/make-up vicious cycle (it’s easier to contemplate it when you’re not succumbing to relationship chain-smoking). There’s always this one friend in a group that seems to break up and make up every other month with their (not-so) significant other; I just never thought it would be me.

Instagram quotes dictate that if you love someone you should let them go and if they, too, love you then they’ll flock over to you like a mother to her lost child in Disney World, feverishly nervous with a previously latent maternal instinct. Needless to say, Instagram lies; it doesn’t take into account raised libidos in certain contexts. Other than that, someone forgot to tell the person that you let go that you don’t always want them back; they’ll innocently return to their previous captor (otherwise known as significant other), thinking that they are actually wanted back. Who the fuck told them to do this? Oh, and then the person that let them go is filled with guilt (me), because you don’t actually have a great reason to send them on their way again (like me), so either I’m the bitch that doesn’t value his effort or I’m the bitch that keeps him in an unwanted relationship. Relationship chainsmoking, guys: tacit guilt trips are encarcerating.

Is it worth it? How many times must we pretend to nurture that wounded dove before throwing it off a cliff so that it stops victimizing itself and you can tend to shit you actually want? As many licks as it takes to get to the center of a tootsie pop? Fucking doves.

Of course, your friends will probably be like, “Brah, you do you, man.” Sure, I’ll do me when I’m rotting in hell for breaking someone’s heart: voices inside your head telling you you’re a dick. You might be, but, you know, there’s always the notion of healthy dicks (regular check-ups for bullshit are key, bae).

No, seriously, I know from personal experience that keeping someone roped, out of sheer guilt, can only lead to one thing: STDs (unhealthy dick, get it?). Okay, now I’m really going to be serious, it’s always better to be a healthy dick than an unhealthy one. In this case, there’s really no great path, because in both scenarios you’re a dick. Oh, and if you get a crier and you’re as easy as the Republican Party, then, damn, I feel sorry for you, because it will only get harder (pun definitely intended).

Conclusion: Viril, healthy dicks are better than ball-less ones.

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