It shocks me now to think I ever could have dated her, loved her. She was and is so repugnant to me; even at the beginning, I suppose. But I molded her into what I wanted her to be, though she was reluctant to change. Nonetheless, I’ve found you can get women to do anything if they think you’ll stay with them. All they want is adulation, worship—and that’s what I pretended to do, for a time. But a man’s acting abilities can only go so far. The longer I stayed with her, the more I despised her—so cloying, so into me. But, in the end, at least I got a Bach bust out of it. Obedient little girl that she was, she stole it for me from a party, merely because I expressed a liking of it. Those are hard to come by—Bach busts and women that will steal them for you—and it now adorns a table in my study where my pursuits no longer consist of women, so much as “self-actualization.” I’m a better man for being alone. People are a waste of time—above all, females. Though, yes, occasionally I need them to feed my ego, to suck my dick. That’s nothing you can’t get with a certain amount of money or a trip to the local strip club.
I think of her sometimes, when I want someone to really listen to me, bolster my spirits a bit—or even when I want a good laugh from her sheer lack of common sense. However, more often than not, I still shake my head at how foolish I was in pursuing her. Her frivolity, her drunkenness, her goddamn vindictiveness at what she perceived as even the faintest affront—she was always going to be what I can, with the wisdom of hindsight, call a test run. And now that I live in isolation, save for when my mother or father brings me a snack or some news of her or his day, I marvel at how I lived with her for so long. I cringe just thinking about it. Her lackluster breasts, her untoned body. Really, just a generally unkempt appearance. I could do a lot better at this point if I wanted to. It baffles me when I consider my superior intellect and ability to exist in the world in a nonconventional way, a way she could never understand. Her with her office job and her desire for material comforts. What a cliché of a woman. To think I ever believed there was something unique about her. I suppose, at the present, I can chalk it up to impetuous youth. Luckily, I’m far more in control of my emotions at this juncture. And I’ve found that one can easily temper “feelings of love,” which if you take the time to consider actually chasing after the concept, will prompt you to stop—because you should know that those feelings always fade. No, there’s more merit in companionship, camaraderie, familial closeness. I’m not saying I won’t love a woman ever again, it’s just I have no use for the attention and fawning they require during this delicate and important period of my life. And yes, maybe I led her on just in the slightest—I’m convinced she would have moved anywhere in the world for me. I didn’t intend for it all to go so profoundly awry. Jesus though, why did she have to be so sensitive about the whole thing? Like I fucking shot her or something. It’s just a breakup. It happens. That’s life, etc. What kind of person truly believes something can last nowadays anyway? I mean, she must have been even more idiotic than I imagined. Fuck women. That’s all I can say. That’s what she taught me. So maybe my years with her weren’t a total wash. It’s a valuable lesson to learn, that women are nothing more than a means to fritter away your non-productive hours.