I got a little too good at breaking hearts

Every time I fall in love
I go and fuck it up right when it gets good
Don’t you think it’s funny
Don’t you think it’s funny

And I know I did all the shitty things to you
That I said I never ever would
But baby, that’s so like me
Yeah baby, that’s so like me

It’s time to get to the heart of the matter. Well, maybe that’s not the best cliché to use. I feel I am a compassionate person. I also feel that the compassion is biased to women, children, and the elderly. I feel a distinct disconnect when it comes to men. And I am not talking about heavy-hearted matters, I mean if something tragic or trauma inducing happens to a person of the male persuasion, I can be empathetic and genuinely so. But with anything else, I really can be an Ice Queen.

The realest, truest thing about me is every man I have been romantically involved with is a means to a motive. I fell the hardest for Jorge, but when I first met him, I wasn’t the one interested in him — my roommate was. She wanted him, he wanted me. I won. Then it would continue on that anytime he came to our apartment she’d be without pants or in some skimpy outfit and Jorge and I would glance at one another across the room – thoroughly amused. When Jorge was close to popping the question though, I destroyed us. People had me convinced that I wasn’t ready or he wasn’t the one. Jorge was the closest to the “one.” But I know, I never will be ready for marriage. It’s like children to me, they’re cute, but I don’t want them.

I dated Punk-Rock Jimmy for the drugs and the fact he had pretty eyes. I dated Jeff because I saw him as an escape plan. I dated the 2nd Jimmy for the same reason. And by escape plan I mean as a means that I could move away from home. I’ve never made a living wage — that’s a whole different issue.

Every person I have dated has simply been a means to a motive. By dating them, I got something I wanted from them. Validation, ego boosts, living away from my family, drugs, gifts, boredom fixes. Tim is no different and I fucked up. I saw him, we made up, he wants to be with me, he loves me, and now I gotta get out of it because – again – I don’t want him when I have him.

Strung out in the back of a black car
I’ve got a little too good at breaking hearts
I wonder if I’ll ever stop

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