Whatcha Doin?

It was a simple, casual text.

"Whatcha doin?!"

Umm. well, you haven't responded or texted me in 2 days, so...

yeah.

I'm drowning in a puddle of my own tears because I don't know what the fuck is going on with you and you haven't messaged me in two days.... all AFTER the past week and all that was said between us.

When I saw your name flash on my screen, what I was doing was thinking that what needs to happen is I need to tie you up with the goddamn red silk tie you insisted I buy and use my fingers and mouth to make you cum so many times you can't feel your arms or legs and then fuck you long and hard... then hold you as we both fall asleep, then wake up and fuck you again...  so that the very next time you even *think* I might be texting you your clit tingles and your panties melt and MAYBE you'll at least fucking acknowledge that I'm here. 

That's what I'm doin?!

What do you think?

A chicken sandwich in 2016

I can still see the moment in 2016. The exact second I knew.

I can feel the pain, the anger, the redness on my face.

Inside, I made a decision. THAT. WAS. IT.

And, I can still taste the chicken sandwich of denial 30 minutes later.

The taste of peanut oil and white meat and buttered bread.

The laughter.

The pretending.

It didn't happen, it won't happen again.

It's better if I just let it go.

It's better to let go.

And, well, it was better. For a minute. A day. A week.

Until it wasn't better. Until it hurt worse. Until I lost. Lost it all. Lost even the one who gave me hope.

I ate a chicken sandwich in 2016 and it killed my future. Made me sick with regret. Destroyed opportunity.

The pain of that bitter meal stings even now, and will sting until the end.

I knew... EXACTLY what needed to happen. And did none of it.

I ate a sandwich. I smiled. I laughed.

And I died inside.

100% white meat death.