I refer to the ConMan in the post below. Trusting my instincts would have been smart; instead, I put my faith in opportunity and sex.
He told me he wanted to make me pregnant three weeks after the first kiss so that he could "become a part of me." One week later, a confession: "I'm in love with you." What girl raised on late 80s/early 90s romantic comedies is built to resist? Not I. However, relaxing into love, I let myself step off the pedestal. Apparently, the ConMan doesn't like seeing eye to eye.
Must I say this again? Hindsight is 20/20.
O, you liar! You slut!
You rank piece of filth disguised in poet's words.
Your self-ignorance astounds!
He tricked me because he tricked himself - his honest desire to give love matched solely by his inability. The ConMan is a collector of ex-girlfriends. Beautiful women kept on hand [not too close, those], gathering an idea here, a trait here, till he has mind-built the perfect girlfriend. What you stupid Myspace profile says is right:
Who I'd like to meet:
Someone I never will.
Perhaps I am back. Perhaps not. Can you believe the word of a heartbroken stoner? You ought not to, though my intentions, like the ConMan's, are good.
Ah, I can see it - the road to hell.