Je ne dois pas m'expliquer à personne. I don't have to bend over backwards so as to not offend. I can swear as much as I bloody well want to. I don't have my hands bound to my neck with chains, nor are my legs shackled to a wall inside a Khoja-run mosque. I don't have to initiate any more emails, online chat sessions, texts or phone calls. (Prank calls, my ass.) And I don't have to respond to them either, and eat up my pay-as-you-go credit. I don't have to bleed my heart and soul dry for an emotionally frigid piece of meat. I don't have to make up the perfect relationship in my head while completely rejecting and avoiding what was real because of my neuroses and fears and anger. I can satisfy my highly idealistic and romantic daydreams without touching reality (or a man) for a while longer. I don't have to send you metta or reiki or take out your I Ching anymore. I can call and label you whatever I want: wanker, man-boy, mama's boy...