Run ... It’s Easier Than Trying

Run.

It's what you do best.

Run and blame others for your own insecurities.

She's gained a few pounds?

Run from the relationship. The relationship YOU initiated. The exclusivity YOU suggested. It's easier than trying.

Run ... like a coward.

But not before making her feel bad about herself because you're too scared to admit your own faults.

But she was to blame as well.

Your flakiness was confused for spontaneity.

Childish demeanor? Or a fun-loving personality? She was too willfully blind to see what you really were. What you really wanted.

You wanted the perks of a relationship without any of the responsibility. You wanted to fuck and run.

Fuck

... then run

the minute things got too hard

... too real.

It's not surprising. You're always moving.

Always running toward one goal: You.

Everyone else be damned.

Even in bed, you'd storm in, ready to claim your most prized possession: your narcissistic pleasure.

Your superficiality knows no bounds. You know nothing about how to pleasure a woman, nothing about real intimacy. You talk a good game but the orgasms were faked to satiate your ego.

So, go ahead and run. Run because you're too afraid to find out what it's like to feel

raw, unadulterated affection.

She'll be sleeping soundly,

knowing you'll no longer be a part of her.