Addiction to a person is no different than addiction to a substance. All of the same symptoms can take hold …
Category: Love & Sex Addiction
What Follows Is a Counter-Intuitive Approach to Stop Being Addicted to a Person Who Makes You Miserable I used to get miffed when “nice
Ladies, I recently read Amy Schumer’s hilarious memoir, The Girl With the Lower Back Tattoo, which made me realize that when it comes to bad relationships
Excerpt: “Touching her is the worst part. She’s still warm. Her limp body is a rebuke as I press it to my chest, trying to comfort and revive her. A bottle of milk appears. I try to feed the kitten as my heart beats frantically in time with the words in my head, please don’t die, please don’t die, please don’t die.” Keep reading
Here’s my first “Ask Shannon” video! Perfect when your new love interest wants to move in after one week! Uh oh! Could be he’s a
He was going to see Margot. A tall, slender, yet buxom drink of Brunette and my worst nightmare.
One of my rock bottoms was discovering my boyfriend romancing another woman at 2 a.m. in his apartment …
1. You are unable to find satisfaction in your life outside of a specific person.
If you see an Asshat as a human being you’ll begin to miss the specific things you love about him, instead of focusing on the overall crappy way he makes you feel.
Here’s why using sex to audition for wife will fail every time …
Are you an Asshat? Because I can fix you. If you’re a car, then I’m a mechanic. If you’re a computer, then I’m the Geek Squad. If you’re a porn star, then I’m the fluffer.
Here’s the funny thing about people. They tell you who they are. And they often tell you right away. Recently, I worked with an old
Ahh, that perennial relationship black hole of Calcutta, the Asshat. They don’t call when they say they will. They don’t show up when expected. They
Asshats. We’ve all been in love with at least one. Haven’t we? If you haven’t, do me a service and lie. What defines an Asshat?
I tried to open my bedroom window and it wouldn’t budge. Someone had locked it. I glanced confusedly at Albert. This is when we both heard my father’s Clint Eastwood-esque voice from the nearby porch, “Shannon,” he said, “you’ve slit your own throat.”
I watched as he peered about looking for me and I saw the familiar conscientious expression on his face. Worried he was a little too late. And I realized in that moment that I still loved him.