The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.
I’d ask for an Amen, but every microscopic cell of my being is already chorusing, cheering and nodding in united agreement.
Bandaid schmandaid. I care not for the negativity of warning labels bullying me into employing the tedious and time wasting tactics of letting my heart heal naturally. Shudder.
I will instead gleefully rejoice in positioning every magical, sticky little Sharman of ego- boosting promiscuity slap bang centre of my stinging confidence until the sad motherfucking sore section quits it’s bitching and brushes this rejection shit the hell off my person.
I’m so perilously close to the doorstep of 40 that I can read the motivational words of it’s welcome mat which declares, incidentally, that “If you can read this sign you’re obviously alone and unsuccessful at relationships and possibly most things thus far and your four decades of fuck-uppery are a constant source of disappointment to your parents”.
For the love of lubricant, I hardly need a smug, smart-arse door mat alerting me to the realisation that I lack both the time and patience for that frivolous ‘time heals all wounds’ bull shit.
Bandaids are where it’s at for me.
I can confidently cite the Spontaneous Satisfying Sexcapade of 2016. Following an unexpected dumping by a Brad-the-Bundy-swilling-box-ticking nice guy, I was rewarded with no less than eight lusty encounters featuring eight sexy men.
I’m definitely of the strike-while-the-iron’s-hot mentality, and in retrospect I didn’t predict so many different bandaids to be at my disposal. The planets aligned for me for a fun fortnight of fuck-tasticism. High five Universe.
Judge if you feel the need, but variety is the spice of life, after all and works a treat. I mean, it was strictly for medicinal purposes, as directed by Kim’s Basic First Aid for Busted Up Hearts Volume 9 (for those playing at home) Chapter 3, section 2a – available in 13 languages and now as an audio book. Completely imaginary but I’m sure you’re picking up what I’m putting down.
Last night may well be the opening ceremony of another fortnight of Healing Heathenism.
Steve? Steve who? Oh yes, that weeping, festy wound snugly contained beneath bandaid Numero Uno. Still hurts to the touch, if I dare to flirt openly with honesty but less debilitating than yesterday.
Nothing another bandaid or seven can’t fix.
Onwards and upwards