**May (Definitely) Contain Adult Language**
I dated an asshole. It's not that I was oblivious to his "ass-holiness", it's just that the romanticism that plague most women took over for a tiny bit. That YOU will be the exception. Maybe it's just a maturity issue. With time, people grow, right? Sometimes yes, but most times, you just gotta get the eff outta dodge.
This post is not a man hating post however. I knew what I was getting myself into. It ended exactly how I had imagined it would. The question that stirs my soul is, why does someone that I categorize as "asshole" get to me so much? They're NOT worth it and they SHOULD be forgettable, and yet, here I am, devoting a post to said asshole. (This isn't about you BTW...)
It's because I am slightly disappointed with myself. I allowed this person to get under my skin. A person that does not rank highly on my scaling of awesome-ness when compared to all the other glorious people in my life (you guys know who you are), simply got to me. This less than stellar person brings destruction in his wake, and I ALLOWED it. Woe is me.
OK, so I gave in to the pity paragraph. But no one likes a martyr, myself included. Let's get a little bipolar and switch gears here. Yes, said asshole got under my skin but if I had to do it allover again, you can bet your bottom dollar that I would. As much as I'm sitting here in "Asshole 2012" aftermath, digesting the events of this torrid love affair, I admit I had a great time.
It was fun, romantic, and sweeping. It was also painful, frustrating, and expletive laden. But such is life. I know I'm masochistic in that I find the pleasure in the pain. It's incomprehensible to most but I do. The hurt makes you feel alive. The love does as well. But can one pick and choose so freely? No. It's just good to feel. I love that.
So yes, I dated an asshole. But I felt. I felt hard. No regrets. Just blog posts ;)
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