Coward's Way Out

More often than not I take to writing because it's the coward's way out.

It's easier to hide behind a keyboard than it is to muster the courage to start a conversation I'm not even sure I want to be having.

So, in cowardly nature, I'm here to say I'm hurt.

I'm trying my very best to play it cool because I want to be that for you so badly.

The kind of girl that you run back to brag about. The kind that keeps you well-fucked, well-fed, and well-rested. The kind of girl that's all give and no take.

I'm embarrassed to be hurt because I'm afraid that my hurt will come as an inconvenience to you... and that would not be very "Cool Girl" of me.

When I start down this rabbit hole, I always think about this monolog from Gone Girl.

Being the Cool Girl means I am a hot, brilliant, funny woman who adores football, poker, dirty jokes, and burping, who plays video games, drinks cheap beer, loves threesomes and anal sex, and jams hot dogs and hamburgers into her mouth like she’s hosting the world’s biggest culinary gang bang while somehow maintaining a size 2, because Cool Girls are above all hot. Hot and understanding. Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want.

This one has always stuck with me because it struck a nerve in me.

I've always wanted to be the girl that can shoot pool, drive a stick, and stomach whiskey with a smile.

I want to be hot and understanding.

(I want to be a size 2 but I'll settle with 2 out of 3).

But I never want to be the type of person that creates myself for anyone but myself.

And I don't think I have.

I want all those things for myself because there's an identity that I'm fond of there.

I think that benefits us both.

I think you like the cool girl and I know I like being the cool girl.

I think you're happy.

I think I'm happy.

But when the cool guy doesn't pick the cool girl, the cool girl is left wondering what she's missing.

I thought you were happy.

I just can't shake the feeling that you aren't actually happy. If you were, we would still be in our perfectly protected glass bubble.

I'm running around a minefield hoping I don't step on an explosive that makes you realize that I'm not your flavor of cool girl.

I'm looking in the mirror and picking myself to pieces. Making a list of things to change.

I'm hating the sound of my own voice and coaching myself to use it less.

I'm wondering what will happen the next time a cool girl catches eyes for the man that hung my moon and stars.

This is a raw attempt to relay my headspace the coward's way, so that we might be able to avoid this conversation altogether.

I guess I'm just not feeling very cool.