vibrator ’til death do us part 💀💀
aka: bro. i tried.
yo.
i’m not even gonna lie to you.
by the time i was full arms-swinging
out of my whole-ass marriage—
wrecking-ball energy,
toddler + emotional support dog in the subaru—
i remember thinking:
there’s no fucking way
i’m bringing my kid around these dudes
(my single-girl roster averages like 5–7 per fiscal year)
times… what? 18 years?!
do the math—shit.
that’s like…100+ failed male experiments?!
and a little girl thinking “eating men alive”
is just mommy’s quirky lil hobby.
i couldn’t do it.
so—
i had a moment.
not like spiritual awakening.
just, like… clarity.
the kind you get while
microwaving dinosaur nuggets
and staring at a wall.
and somewhere in my stupid lil lizard-girl brain
i was like—
okay.
if there’s one man i’d risk it all for—
(full heartbreak, full exposure, full “will he pass the stepdad vibe check?”)
it was him.
my one real regret.
my personal myth.
my what-if-that-was-the-real-one-and-i-just-fucked-it-up.
so when that shit imploded
in a way so profoundly pathetic???
(10/10 wouldn’t even pitch it to netflix, it’s too bleak)
i just kind of… recalibrated.
i was like, okay. plan b:
friends with benefits.
low drama.
casual only.
no feelings.
chill.
just vibes + orgasms.
men should love this shit, right?
wrong.
like yo—
these dudes were confused.
like—deeply confused.
i was offering a win
they did not understand the assignment.
i said:
casual. cool. detached.
come over.
go down on me.
don’t be weird.
don’t propose.
don’t tell me about your estranged stepbrother named brad.
but what did they do?
all of the above.
in that order.
twice.
brooooooooo.
when i tell you—
i auditioned these men.
i shit you not—
full casting couch energy.
just being like—yo:
read the script.
stay in your lane.
act like a person.
don’t cry after.
and still—
my dudes
could. not. handle. it.
not the logistics.
not the vibe.
not the silence.
not the detachment.
not the fact that i didn’t need their life history
on fucking slide deck 1 of our friendship.
homie—
i told you this was a recurring guest star role,
not your main character arc.
and these gremlins were out here
bleeding their whole childhood into the storyline.
telling me about their deadbeat dads
and stepmom trauma or some shit—
baaaaabe.
please be serious.
it’s honestly incoherent—
how few men are emotionally qualified
to be even
a casual situationship.
bruh.
y’all can’t even not fall in love
or not emotionally collapse
under the weight
of exactly what you claim to want.
like—
why are you being weird after we kissed once
in between my kids’ bath and bedtime?
and the actual sex????
like—
jesus christ.
it’s giving…
sixth-grade fan fiction energy
with the stamina of a 90s dial-up connection.
and the worst part?
they still think
they’re bringing alpha energy.
like—
brooooo.
this is not what you think it is.
so in conclusion:
un-fucking-believable.
it’s looking like:
✨ vibrator until the sun explodes ✨
✨ god’s loneliest soldier ✨
✨ celibacy, but make it tragicomic ✨
final diagnosis?
men are not emotionally qualified
to be even the casual relief character
in the subplot of my
post-divorce sexual renaissance.
because apparently
you either get:
once-in-a-lifetime, soul-shattering,
timeless love story shit—
or
you get a fucking
man-child
with two positions and a neck tattoo
who’s crying into his hands
because you didn’t text him “🥺” after he got home.
and guess what?
i got neither.
so yeah.
the myth’s dead.
the fallback plan’s a fucking joke.
and it’s just me,
my vibrator,
and a delusional little dream now.
🪦✨
lmk if someone emotionally literate
with dick game above a 3.7 becomes available.
💀
