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I moved from Long Island down to Burlington, NC at the ripe age of 13. Culture shock hit me harder than the Night King’s arm cannon hit Viserion, but so did the sweet Southern Belles. For 3 years I made George Strait proud; Shamelessly checking yes or no and cluelessly jumping from girl to girl as one thing or another (read: me, my stupidity, and my no reason boners) caused those relationships to fail. Then, my Junior year of High school, something magical happened. A senior, with a rack that would have made Y.C. weep, took interest in me in a biblical way.
Could it be love? I was hooked, and we dated for 2 years before she went away to college, banged all my friends I’d introduced her to, and made sure I’d be dead inside for the foreseeable future. So yeah, definitely love. However, my parents didn’t raise no quitter, and for the next 11 years I dated like my life depended on it. No capitalizing on laxtitutes in undergrad, no drunken swiping at the hotel bar on my business trips, just a string of year and a half to 3 year long train wrecks with next to no time in between. Which brings us to the present. I’m fresh off another 3 year-er, and, as the dust settles, I find myself truly single and without a bench for the first time in 13 years.
I know, I know, single-for-lifers, queue the tiny violins, but let’s be real. Serial Monogamy has plagued our generation, hell, probably every generation in some shape or form. I can’t speak for all of SM Nation, but I can definitely spew some conjecture. A true Serial Monogamist will create a vicious cycle fueled by one theme: while single, that feeling of being alone is more foreign, and therefore, more terrifying than being with that wrong guy/girl(/they). Personally, my MO was to get back with exes, or latch on to the nearest interested female. Inevitably, we’d fall back into the same patterns, same routines (shouts to Em), and end up crashing and burning. It’s your classic cramming 10 (or 20, or 47738473, depending on the relationship) pounds of shit into a 5-pound bag. Just because you’re theoretically closer to your goal doesn’t necessarily mean you’re actually on the path to reaching it.
So, here’s my call to action: if your relationship colostomy bag is full and you find yourself staring at the leftover, drop that shit (#puns) like your “friend” with the green texts and work on yourself. It may be scary, but opportunity doesn’t strike while you’re sitting in your comfort zone. Personally, I’ve scored a ‘scrip for a self-assigned 18 month dating hiatus; Not to say I won’t be whipping out my mommy-hunter hats on the weekends. Let’s see how far out of practice, drunken wink bombs can carry the team..