I know that I say that I'm holding out a lot, and I know that I say that I know that I say that I'm holing out a lot a lot, but I'M HOLDING OUT, BOB.The reality, of course, being that I last about a day or two before getting really bored and stuff. Cause it's not like I really feel the need to work the gherkin, it's more like HEY THERE'S NOTHING TO DO LET'S MAKE MYSELF TEMPORARILY SATISFIED.
ANYWAY.
So I told Bob that I'd be holding out (again) last Tuesday, with the belief that I really wasn't going to be holding out. Except, this time, I actually did.
So I'd been pretty clean for the week. Until Wednesday. That was when I decided that, being at home alone, and having held out for an entire week (it actually goes by pretty quickly upon reflection, but really slowly as you actually go through it), I thought I earned myself a Grande Olde Tugge. So, I jumped on the computer, and started doing my thing, except I noticed that I didn't really want to do it. Still, I persisted.
Throughout the whole process, I felt as if it were a chore. As if it would be so much easier to stop than to keep going, and, at one point, I did exactly this. But I went back, thinking I NEED TO START FINISHING THINGS I START. So I did, but there was no real rush of endorphins, only one of shame. I felt horrible. Used. Abused. Like someone's sexual slave.
And then it hit me.
I'd just raped myself.
