surprises.

You are wrong. I agreed with you while you were standing there staring me down looking for absolution. I agreed with you for no other reason than to make you go away, because I couldn't hear well enough to argue and I couldn't stop the room from spinning regardless.

"You're not into men," you said in the same tone you'd use to say that the dog peed on the bed and that's why there's a yellow puddle. "You're not into men." Simplifying, explaining to a small child, smoothing over everything that happened. "You're not into men," as if you would know, as if you could decide for me, as if I had forgotten my lunchbag on the kitchen table and you were bringing it to school annoyed.

I am not the one that needs to be forgiven here. In fact I am very sure that your problems that became my problems have little to do with gender and a lot to do with the fact that you're a controlling ass. and i think you know that.

(I'm not into asshole men. I'm not into men who smell bad. I'm not into men who try to take over my life. I'm not into manipulative jerks.)