**Note to readers: I started out planning for this to fit with today's topic about serial killers, but realized that it was way too deep and way too personal for me to just add a rushed, bullshit ending. I am probably going to combine it with some other similar stuff that I wrote to build a more comprehensive piece that will probably end up being pretty cathartic for me. So, this is just a tiny bit (but more than a paragraph!) and CONSTRUCTIVE criticism and comments are still welcome...
She realized weeks earlier that being a bitch was way, way more fun than being the nice girl. She realized that being the one to get off first, then rolling over and falling asleep in a bed that wasn’t hers was a lot better than laying there, pretending to enjoy herself, only because she had had one too many vodka tonics at the bar where he found her.
The holes in her heart eventually began to resemble a Cambodian minefield. All the memories, tiny barbed contraptions scattered about causing destruction at any and every given moment. She never knew when she would be walking along and they would just pop up, causing her to lose yet another limb, have yet another breakdown, take yet another pill, all because she could never keep her feelings in check.
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