How I Ditched My Commitment Issues ... By Snooping


jumping woman
Keeping one foot out the door helped me dodge vulnerability ... and, it turns out, real love.

As someone who has had her diary read, I knew what a betrayal it would have been to open the file — an invasion of his privacy and an admission that I didn’t trust him. So I hit 'Accept,' finished the transfer, and hailed a cab to the airport.

Yeah, right. We all know that didn’t happen. I opened that file within two seconds of reading its name. I needed to know who this guy really was.


Anger pulsed through my veins. The contents of the document precisely reflected its name. It was a very comprehensive list of all of the girls Jonathan had been with in his life. Fifty-four in all.

There were notes beside some of them: 'Big boobs; bad kisser; great blow job; nice underwear; liked to touch herself.' I scanned each name, each bullet point, my blood pressure rising. At the end of the list, there was my name: number 54. Beside it, simply, "Comedienne."

I wanted to punch the screen. This was it. The evidence I’d been looking for. A disgusting list reducing old girlfriends and experiences to their physical attributes or sexual tendencies. There were no notes beside any of these poor girls’ names that said, 'totally related; had great talks; super intelligent,' or how about 'funny'?! No, there were just misogynistic asshole comments about boobs and d*ck-sucking.

I was going to make it my f*cking job to make sure Jonathan never got his d*ck sucked by me again. He'd be begging for the sloppy blow job of Sonja, number 27. And you know why number 17 liked touching herself? Because you couldn’t get her off, you jerk.

And then there was 'comedienne.' No one says 'comedienne' anymore. It’s derogatory, and it falls under the same category as spinster: a long-discarded sexist term (that's been replaced by career woman or cougar). The right word is comic, or comedian.

Mostly, I hated that there was a list, period — and that my name was lumped in with a bunch of failed experiences. I wanted to believe that somehow I was different from the rest; the exception. Much like I'd believed he was more evolved than the other guys. But he was just another dumb guy.

I couldn’t tell him over the phone; how would that work? Would I move out before he got back? That wouldn’t be satisfying enough. No, I wanted to confront him in person. Who cares that I was ruining our vacation? He'd ruined my life.

That's when I brainstormed 'Mission: Delete Jonathan.' I’d start by telling him that he could take me off his stupid list, and then wish him luck finding a girl who fit in better amongst the Sarahs and Laurens who came before me. I’d tell him he didn’t deserve my great blow job that I actually cared about giving him. Then I'd turn on my heels, drive back to the airport, and get on the next flight.   Keep reading...

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