I hope I never fall in love with you. And as she said it she knew it was already too late. She was a hopeless romantic. She believed in soul mates and true love and innocence. . .and her name was Gretchen.
No matter how good it is with Don, it will always be better with Pat. Even when he hurts me, it’s better. It’s better because he hurts me.
Well, you know what they say. Chicks dig guys who are azzholes. Not the nice dudes, like my buddy and me.
Why is that? Are we subconsciously seeking to be dominated because we can’t reconcile the dichotomy of the stereotypical female role-model as being some stay-at-home-mom slash fuck machine with our own modern identities or some other, more heinous reason? You’re plenty asshole, by the way.
‘Tiz possible. Great…er, thanks for the compliment.
You’re just asshole enough!
Ah, mediocre azzhole, I like that.
Waiter, I’d like my asshole medium-well please. Just a little pink in the middle.
You’re sick. I’m sorry for you, Gretchen.
Sorry. Comedy is my suit of armor.
I know. God. You are really fucked up. Thanks. I’ll never get rid of that visual.
At least I know now and can deal with that on my own. The big question is this: Do I submit to the programming that has made me desire punishment and pain and call it love or do I open my fucking eyes and see that I already have it?
Have you ever seen a shrink about this, Gretch?
Sure. She wanted to know if I had been raped or molested. If I have, I don’t remember it. I think I told you about it. She wanted to try hypnosis, I said no thanks.
But it’s possible? I mean your dad was abusive right and you practically ran away from home at 15. What about that creepy uncle of yours?
Well, it’s a pretty typical psychological diagnosis, but there are other reasons why I might be this way.