The Curse

I throw myself in every time. And every time I get thrown over I am simultaneously heartbroken and nonplussed. I’ve been given the gamut of reasons for why it “can’t work out.” From “I don’t think we’re compatible” to “You didn’t mesh well enough with my friends” to “Oh hey, I’m going to Africa for a while,” there’s pretty much nothing I haven’t been told as an excuse for men to extricate themselves from their presumed perception of my vise grip. Honestly, I’m really starting to develop a complex. I’ve done a thorough examination of myself after every slight, however, and have only come to find that, yes, I’m practically perfect. Sure I have some problematic areas of my body, but who doesn’t? And yeah, some more prudish types might call me a nymphomaniacal alcoholic, but that’s neither here nor there. When it comes to my ability to be a giving, dare I say even obsequious person, though, there are few other women who can match me. It’s after realizing this that it hit me: maybe this is why they’re all abandoning me. Maybe I should really show them what a bitch can be and they’ll fall madly, irrevocably in love. So I tried it and, well, that didn’t work either. That’s when I figured it out. Someone must have put a curse on me Maleficent-style at birth. Actually in my family, it was a tradition for my grandmother to sprinkle sugar on every newborn girl’s pussy (look, don’t ask me about Southern Italian traditions, okay?) to make them alluring later on in life or something, but she never did it to me. Maybe that’s why I’m so prone to malediction in matters concerning attracting and maintaining “a mate.” Because there’s truly just no way I could be this unlovable without some sort of sorcery afoot. If you know of any spells or hex reversal chants, I’m willing to try almost anything. Just don’t suggest I sprinkle sugar on my vag because it’s already too late for that.

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