So yeah. By every moral metric humanity pretends to care about, I'm the villain.
Let's be brutally honest for once: I had become so disgustingly fluent in the language of instant claiming that "real dating" now sounded like something anthropologists study in crumbling villages—like courtship rituals involving carved wooden dildos and three months of goat-herding before you're allowed to touch a boob.
Archaic. Adorable. Irrelevant.
Normal people date. They text. They endure awkward small talk about "what do your parents do?" and "favorite Netflix show right now?"
They suffer through three to eight progressively worse dinners before deciding whether the sex is worth another human's emotional baggage.
Me? I skip the foreplay of civilization and go straight to rewriting her central nervous system with my dick. Same-day acquisition. Zero to "you belong to me" in the time it takes most men to decide which filter makes their Tinder selfie look least like a mugshot.
