About a month ago I jotted of a reply to an email that was. . . ill advised.
Downright fucking embarrassing really. I've talked to myself out loud on more than one occasion, rolling over my terrible choice of words in my head and exclaiming, "you're a fucking weirdo" at conversation level volume. Which doesn't really help your case; self incrimination for weirdo-hood is always taken Very Seriously.
It was an email to a guy I know, and I used some terribly awkward phraseology that still makes me fucking cringe.
No, I won't repeat it.
It's mortifying enough in my head.
I thought terrible stuff like this was done after marriage; this is the sort of embarrassment I remember from college and my single years after college. I've got reams of memories etched into my brain; I shudder when I think of the no-game having younger me wrought upon the world.
But fuck, this was (A) an email to a male and (B) me begging for friendship like I used to beg for sex.
I don't even want to be friends anymore after that email.
This isn't sour grapes, either.
This is a guy who could weaponize my embarrassment.
Life doesn't really get any easier, it seems. Sometimes I know enough to avoid leading with my chin, but I still end up getting punched somewhere. I need to hold tight to this; I can't be lost in the woods in 6 months with a newborn wistfully recalling when I had my baby-free life all figured out - I don't, at all.
May as well throw some more of my DNA into this hurricane.
I'm sorry in advance, my little babushka.