I do not own Sex and the City, although I wish I did. It's a wicked good
show! The things Samantha and Richard say to one another are from the
episode "Luck be an Old Lady" and they are not mine. However, the stuff in
between is, so don't take that without my permission (why would you want to
take it anyway? lol)
I Love Myself More
My mind rushed in a bland inconsistency, sitting him there penetrated me deep within like a sort of horrifying dagger. I was almost certain my body was bleeding outwardly. I saw it, how could he not? There he sat, his gaze directed straight at me, searching for some sort of clue as to what went on inside of my mind. He didn't understand anything, and that angered me more than anything else in the world.
I frantically searched the room, grasping the straps of my Manolo Blahnik sandals tightly; I scoured the atmosphere, certain that there must have been some clues left behind. But there were not, only a blur of righteousness that attacked me, made drove almost to the feeling of guilt. I did not trust him, and, in truth, I wanted to find him here, I wanted the drama, and the public humiliation. I wanted to be able to call him a dirty bastard again. But there he sat, angelic, timid, and that made me despise him.
"There's no one here," I panted, my face blushing, my lips curving downward. His gaze searched me, but was unable to see the agony that overtook me now. I felt plagued, ashamed, alone. Nothing could correct it now.
"I just ran up eleven flights of stairs because I was sure you were up here fucking someone else."
I met his eyes at last, but they were not cold, as I had expected. They wanted to help, to assure me, to make me feel secure. He cared, he cared!
"I wasn't fucking anyone," he said.
"No!" I exclaimed, my eyes widened, "But you were! And you will be!" I began to breathe heavier, my mind was racing and my body came to the point of convulsion, "And I can't spend the rest of my life running up and down stairs trying to find out when. I'm too old for this," I pressed my bottom to a desk and breathed in gently, closing my eyes and feeling the tears coming out, "I'm thirty seven, after all."
His face shed emotion, and he stared at me blankly for a moment, before gently pursuing with my name. "Samantha," he softly cooed. I looked up, feeling him, truly loving him. I had begun to forget the way he was able to make me feel, the way he so varied from all other men that populated this little world we like to call Manhattan.
"You know I promised you that I would try my best never to hurt you again."
I snickered, "Yes, your best."
His best, what did it mean to me now? What did it ever mean? It was not he who wrote on that card "I love you," it was I. He just played along. This was doomed from the beginning, and I finally understood that. It was not worth it, it was not right. I would never be happy with Richard because I would never believe he was truly happy with me. I could not live like that, and I decided to do the very thing Samantha Jones should have done in this very situation.
I placed my fingers along the gentle inclination of the flawless diamond ring, sliding it off softly and placing it on the table, next to the pearl thong.
"I love you Richard," I sighed, studying his grimace one final time, "But I love myself more."
Without hesitation, I stumbled out of the room, closing the door behind me, not turning back. All the while, my heart was racing, it plagued me, destroyed me, my throat got clogged, and I wanted to fall to the floor crying. My posture lessened composure and I was ready to break down. And then I saw her.
She walked by, the double D enchantress, Miss Atlantic Titty, giving me a light glance, pressing the towels to her prodigious chest as she hurried to the room I had just left. The encounter was only momentary, but I immediately straightened myself and continued down the hall. I had made the right decision.
I had been my own savior. Men came and went, but my pride stayed with me forever. Who cared that no men loved me now? I loved myself, and that was what mattered most.
With a quick step I found myself trailing toward Carrie's room.
I Love Myself More
My mind rushed in a bland inconsistency, sitting him there penetrated me deep within like a sort of horrifying dagger. I was almost certain my body was bleeding outwardly. I saw it, how could he not? There he sat, his gaze directed straight at me, searching for some sort of clue as to what went on inside of my mind. He didn't understand anything, and that angered me more than anything else in the world.
I frantically searched the room, grasping the straps of my Manolo Blahnik sandals tightly; I scoured the atmosphere, certain that there must have been some clues left behind. But there were not, only a blur of righteousness that attacked me, made drove almost to the feeling of guilt. I did not trust him, and, in truth, I wanted to find him here, I wanted the drama, and the public humiliation. I wanted to be able to call him a dirty bastard again. But there he sat, angelic, timid, and that made me despise him.
"There's no one here," I panted, my face blushing, my lips curving downward. His gaze searched me, but was unable to see the agony that overtook me now. I felt plagued, ashamed, alone. Nothing could correct it now.
"I just ran up eleven flights of stairs because I was sure you were up here fucking someone else."
I met his eyes at last, but they were not cold, as I had expected. They wanted to help, to assure me, to make me feel secure. He cared, he cared!
"I wasn't fucking anyone," he said.
"No!" I exclaimed, my eyes widened, "But you were! And you will be!" I began to breathe heavier, my mind was racing and my body came to the point of convulsion, "And I can't spend the rest of my life running up and down stairs trying to find out when. I'm too old for this," I pressed my bottom to a desk and breathed in gently, closing my eyes and feeling the tears coming out, "I'm thirty seven, after all."
His face shed emotion, and he stared at me blankly for a moment, before gently pursuing with my name. "Samantha," he softly cooed. I looked up, feeling him, truly loving him. I had begun to forget the way he was able to make me feel, the way he so varied from all other men that populated this little world we like to call Manhattan.
"You know I promised you that I would try my best never to hurt you again."
I snickered, "Yes, your best."
His best, what did it mean to me now? What did it ever mean? It was not he who wrote on that card "I love you," it was I. He just played along. This was doomed from the beginning, and I finally understood that. It was not worth it, it was not right. I would never be happy with Richard because I would never believe he was truly happy with me. I could not live like that, and I decided to do the very thing Samantha Jones should have done in this very situation.
I placed my fingers along the gentle inclination of the flawless diamond ring, sliding it off softly and placing it on the table, next to the pearl thong.
"I love you Richard," I sighed, studying his grimace one final time, "But I love myself more."
Without hesitation, I stumbled out of the room, closing the door behind me, not turning back. All the while, my heart was racing, it plagued me, destroyed me, my throat got clogged, and I wanted to fall to the floor crying. My posture lessened composure and I was ready to break down. And then I saw her.
She walked by, the double D enchantress, Miss Atlantic Titty, giving me a light glance, pressing the towels to her prodigious chest as she hurried to the room I had just left. The encounter was only momentary, but I immediately straightened myself and continued down the hall. I had made the right decision.
I had been my own savior. Men came and went, but my pride stayed with me forever. Who cared that no men loved me now? I loved myself, and that was what mattered most.
With a quick step I found myself trailing toward Carrie's room.