In my real life, I order a banana split, but it doesn't taste as good as the one I had yesterday- scooping the marshmallow and hot fudge into my mouth right under the nose of my marathon caller.
He is, like all of my marathon callers, writing a fix it fic for his chainsaw girl.
There's some red pill guy who says women lose the ability to pair bond with new people after a while, but I think it's projection. Nearly every guy I meet has some girl who sliced through his heart so deeply that he's only really looking for a new version of her, one that's a little bit less likely to leave him, one he can forgive in some twisted way for whatever she did to break his heart.
This guy has one of the classics- a cuckold fetish developed in the aftermath of getting cheated on by his ex wife. I read between the lines that she was unhappy for a long time, with him. He reads between the lines that it would be hot if he never knew when a woman was fucking another guy or in what position. But it could be anything. Every man has some girl who's burned into him deep and his heart is just a watch ticking out the beats of the story with her. It could be his mother, constantly comforting her for the career she nearly had before her catholic upbringing kicked in and prevented her from aborting him but not from sacrificing him on the altar of covert incest except for him sneaking off to hide his obsession with those trashy girls in music videos, writing the names of their body parts and all the dirtiest words he can find on a pair of jeans and hiding them in the back of his closet. The girl up the street he grew up with, who got raped and then couldn't stop trying to erase the memory in the arms of every guy she met. The rich party girl who fed her cute punk boyfriend from the wrong side of the tracks adderall til he had a psychotic episode, then disappeared when he didn't make her feel safe from the dark or want to go to shows anymore.
The second hot fudge sundae isn't as melted as the first, so the grossness of the bad maraschino cherries stands out more. Normally I love them, even though one of my favorite authors used them as an avatar of everything that's poison in modern society, but the ones from Baskin Robbins just taste like they've been soaked in Robitussin. The rich vein of marshmallow I sucked off the little pink spoon between discussing ways that I could entice someone to spank me at a sex club without being a shrinking violet is just empty calories and no magic. I've been depressed, lately. For about a year. I'm reading one of those cheesy reverse harem romances I like when I'm depressed, but it's not one of the good ones. I've read four chapters and I think it's fan fiction for a show I don't watch with the serial numbers filed off. I only bought it because the last person I nearly fell in love with called me Scarlet as an injoke, and that's what the heroine is called. Yesterday I had an appointment to talk to a totally legit telemedicine doctor about Ozempic. I bought smoke bombs at a fireworks stand and planned a trip out to the country to buy firecrackers for my next day off instead. Maybe I'll call her back.