asshole report card

I require an excessive amount of validation, but you aren’t allowed to be needy yourself because that’s repugnant AF.

So, here’s the thing, I didn’t have a shitty childhood where my parents verbally abused me, chained me to shit around the house, and threw scraps of bread at my head at feeding time. For all intents and purposes, I was a loved and nurtured young lady. By all rights, I should be solidly built on a foundation of self-assurance, self-reliance, self-confidence, and some other form of “self” bullshit. My parents loved me and supported my dreams along with all that other happy horseshit. But ya know what? I’m a hot fucking mess.

I am riddled with doubt. I not only doubt myself, but I also doubt the answers you provide me with. I will very directly ask how I’ve performed in a situation, and once I’ve been provided my report card, I’ll assume you’ve scored me higher because you don’t want to hurt my feelings. Any accolades I receive can’t possibly be earned on merit alone. For some fucked up reason, I must believe you pity me.

This creates a conundrum as now I’m compelled to try harder to do the same task you’ve already said I did well, but now I must do it even better. I try twice as hard, exerting twice the energy and dedication. I’m exhausted and haven’t done the job any better than the first time. I want you see that I’ve done better. I need you to approve. I need you to make note of my improvements. Chances are, you look at me cock-eyed and questioningly. And now I’m pissed. You fuck! You ungrateful fuck!

My favorite thing to do is ask my husband why he loves me. I like to ask him while we’re watching television - like it’s a pop quiz. Seemingly out of nowhere, I’ll ask some stupid shit like “Honey, why do you love me?” or “If you could only use 3 words to describe me, what would they be?” He fucking loves this game. I know he does. I can tell by the way he sighs, and his eyes glaze over. It’s kind of like when he orgasms. That’s how know he’s totally cool with this game even though he won’t look at me or talk to me for nearly 5 mins. He’s just getting his bearings.

When he finally gathers his composure, he says some super romantic shit: “We’ve already seen this episode, is there anything else you want to see?” True love; we certainly have something very special. But for real, what do I expect him to say? I spring this hostile shit on him at least once every 2 months. A man’s going to run out of bullshit sweet talk eventually. There are only so many times you can use: sweet, caring, funny, smart, sexy, and great in bed before they all get played out. Okay, great in bed is always reliable. No chick ever likes hearing she’s a starfish.

When it comes to stroking the ego of another, I have little patience. Once is fine. Twice is okay. Three times is pushing your luck. Four times and I’m already trying to instill you with a sense of pride; give a fuck about yourself, dammit. Five times and I’m making excuses to not hang out with you, you zap my energy. Six times and it’s likely that I’ve told you you’re a pussy and we can’t be friends. Seven times and I’m blocking you from all forms of communication. Eight…just kidding, there is no eight. You’re dead to me now.

My husband is the only person who gets to experience me being sappy. It’s grotesque. I can get flowery with my words and I even snuggle, but not for too long cuz body heat is hot, and fuck that. Don’t be jealous. He hates it too.

I don’t remember where I was going with any of this. I think I was just killing time. But I guess I must ask, did you like it? If not, I can re-write it, or you can just wait till I write something better, no promises though. I might just starfish until then.