Sh*t happens when you party naked.
It’s like a bad, but strangely revealing sentence in a Match.com profile. You know the picture you’re looking at is the dude from ten years ago, before he lost all his hair and started wearing polo shirts he purchased at CostCo on a trip for red Solo cups and cheese dip, and his “heavy responsibility” job is really just middle management, but you’re willing to overlook it because you’re Internet dating and you’re really not a 34D and a size four and a college graduate. You probably wouldn’t pick him up in a bar, but he messaged you on a free contact weekend and now, it’s been going better it did with your last boyfriend.But you don’t want the guy to you know mention that he works in a cubicle and doesn’t own any furniture that he didn’t pick up from a neighbor on garbage day.
When you’re invested in the delusion as coping mechanism, the two of you need to pretend until it’s too late. Like, you’re married and six months pregnant and in debt to a mortgage company. Or you’ve elected the guy you know is kind of a big tent Republican who is totally fine with controlling the lives of his constituents on a state level. You know. Reality.
