About

dontloveme

I’m a 26 year old graduate student with an active, and occasionally melodramatic, personal life. I usually post longform, but I share shorter bits as they come. Check back at least once a week to see what’s new, or subscribe for automatic updates!


Here comes Trouble.

That’s one of the nicknames ex-boyfriends have had for me in the past, and probably the most accurate one. Other names, past or present, have included: Sunshine, Smiles, Kitten, and Do You Always Have To Be This Difficult?

I like being called Trouble. It took some time but I also take pride in being called Difficult, and you know why? Because it means I’m thinking independently and throwing curveballs. What I’ve found is that men only ever call me Difficult when I’m challenging them, which may be off-putting to some, but garners respect from others.

Once upon a time, a guy asked me, “What would you rather? Either: throw up every time you eat pancakes, OR divulge your entire romantic and sexual history every time you sit down for a meal with another person.”

I didn’t hesitate, and I chose the second one. Why? I love pancakes. I mean, dude, I loooove me some pancakes. I probably make them from scratch about 3x a week, and never from a recipe because I have the whole pancake thing on lock-down. Regular, gluten-free, blueberry, paleo, banana, chocolate chip, double chocolate chocolate chip, cinnabon, need I go on?

He felt like I wasn’t taking this game of theoreticals seriously enough. “No, really, I don’t think you’re thinking this through- your entire history. Every sordid detail. I’m talking like, you’re at Christmas dinner with your grandmother and you start blurting it all out, and you can’t even stop if you wanted to.” No, I said, I would not give up pancakes for that. Not a chance.

He still didn’t believe me, he thought I was being difficult and just selecting the option I thought he didn’t anticipate me selecting, so I had a friend corroborate my reasoning. She and I lived together almost all 4 years of college, she’s been in the kitchen with me after a night out, sitting on the counter downing bowls of sugary cereal while I make pancakes and we gossip. She’s seen me hungover in the kitchen 8 hours later, doing the exact same thing. She knows. She knows.

“Hey, what would I rather? Throw up when I eat pancakes, or share my entire romantic and sexual history every day with anybody I sit with, like even my grandmother?”

“Oh, definitely the sex thing,” she said, “Because you’re not a very private person and you love pancakes.”

And that is a recipe for Trouble.

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