We are carrying the picture of the person who can take us through the final movement in our failing search for wholeness. It is not the relationship that fixes us, but the reclamation process we enact through it. The self-help book says we face a paradox: relationships inflame the wound, but it’s only through relationships that we’ll heal it. Salvador was expelled for knocking over a soda machine and threatening to kill us all. Later, I would keep all sorts of things in the hole: whiskey, Vicodin, cheese, a butterfly knife, Nintendo games, teeth, boxed wine, antipsychotics, condoms. In high school, I used it as a hiding place for the NyQuil I drank from the Gatorade bottle in my locker. The hole had always been there, and when I was little, I filled it with Cadbury Creme Eggs. I thought it was an organ, maybe the soul I had learned about in Catholic school and imagined as a limp gray sac. If he had opened my chest, he would have found the hole, bigger than a heart and a stomach. I stood at the door to the woodshop classroom and watched his hands. At night, I kept my bedroom window open and hoped he wouldn’t come in with the spring air, boy turned demon, broad shoulders as vessels for the unfurling of wings. I started thinking of him as the incubus, something I found on the internet. He said it’s much easier to pry apart a rib cage than you’d think. He said he was going to wait to open my rib cage. Not the first or the last, not the worst, not the source, just another crush. His name was Salvador, and he was one in a long line of the boys and men I called upon to save me. He looked so much like my celebrity crush that he could’ve been his doppelgänger. When I was fourteen, riding the bus home from school, a boy asked me if he could cut open my chest, pry apart my rib cage with his hands, and rip out my heart. Somewhere in the sheaf, between my troubles and attempts to fix them, I will find myself. People, places, dates, and times: I fill my dossier. The hurts I can’t get out of my head are clues. The self-help book says that when I read it, I’m like a mystery solver. It’s like a game, each match as dopamine-rich as a sunk Skee-Ball: Congratulations! You have a new match. I love exotic women, and different cultures. “Follow your passion, be prepared to work hard and sacrifice, and above all, don’t let anyone limit your dreams.” Must love dogs, be low maintenance and love hiking. I like to be active but also enjoy staying in. I enjoy meeting people and going out and trying new things.
Alien skin blow up 3 serial serial#
I am that serial killer you have been looking for lol jk. Looking for a wife to start a family colony.Ĥ20 friendly. Caring, compassionate, level-headed, drama-free, honest, loyal, humble, passionate, easygoing, funny, adventure-seeking, and so on. School of Hard Knocks, University of Life.
I want us to be like an old Nintendo console: blow on it hard and shove it back in the slot. Podcasts, adventures, movies, guitars, hiking, whiskey, dogs, Star Wars, sushi, snack plates, coffee, wine, motorcycles, dancing, drinks, travel, positive vibes, minimalism, bacon, passion. I have near perfect straight teeth for never having braces, and have no clue why I don’t smile with my teeth.Ĭraft beer enthusiast. Taking applications for a travel companion.
Looking for my partner in crime.īourbon and scotch. Been single for a while now due to avoidance of drama but I’m ready to put myself back out there for the right girl.
My finger presses into a flattened mouth to pull it left or right. The last few years have been like this: a cord of twined images of white boys with plastic glasses and plaid shirts and bad posture and two-thirds-full pints on outdoor bar tables. The book says the collected memories are like pixels in a digital image we store of the only person we believe can close the wound. The self-help book says the brain turns all that has happened to us into points. I have a highlighter, a composition book, and a pen. Harville Hendrix’s self-help book for wounded singles says there is a riddle wrapped around my heart. The bookstore self-help section, though, said something different: nobody will love me until I engage in sequential self-exploration exercises.
I told myself, “I love you,” but I was thinking, You’re the worst. The internet says nobody will love me until I learn to love myself, but the internet never gives instructions.
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