You feed her a mouthful of lies, sandwiched between "real talk" and "that's 100." She fights to ignore the churning of her stomach, her intuition's adverse reaction to unpalatable nonsense. You walk away from the conversation, give yourself a mental round of applause, much too self-obsessed to even entertain the thought that her digestion had nothing to do with you. It wasn't the eloquence of your speech that led that woman to accept poorly disguised feces. It wasn't the solidity of your game that caused her to take you back after you called her degrading names. It wasn't the quality of your sex that contributed to her endurance of your fists. Sheltered by ego and self-deceit, you don't see what your presence in her life really means.
