Convenience Girlfriend Quotes

Some women would not cheat, and some would not have cheated, had they each married a man whom they love … or at least like.

Question: would I do it the same way all over again? Absolutely - because I learned something along the way. Most people don't learn things along the way. Or if they do, they conveniently forget those things when it suits their need. Most people, given a second chance, fuck it up completely. It's one of those laws of the universe that you can't shake. People, I have noticed, only seem to learn once they get their third chance - after losing and wasting vast sums of time, money, youth, and energy you name it. But still they learn, which is the better thing in the end.

The only real reason that some relationships and marriages have not yet been ended is because in each case one of the partners has not yet found their ideal partner or someone they love or at least like.

When you're a child, your best friend in the world is the kid who lives next door. It doesn't occur to you then that this is a matter of arbitrary circumstance. When you grow up you like to imagine that your friendships have a more substantial basis - common interests, like-mindedness, some genuine affinity. It's always a sad revelation that when a good friend acquires a girlfriend or a husband and disappears. You realize that,for them, your friendships was always only a matter of convenience, a fallback, and they simply don't need you anymore. There's nothing especially cynical about this; people are drawn to each other because they're giving each other something they both need, and they drift apart when they aren't getting it or don't need it anymore. Friendship have natural life spans, like love affairs or favorite songs.

It’s always a sad revelation when a good friend acquires a girlfriend or a husband and disappears. You realize that, for them, your friendship was always only a matter of convenience, a fallback, and they simply don’t need you anymore. There

Only a few days after my encounter with the police, two patrolmen tackled Alton Sterling onto a car, then pinned him down on the ground and shot him in the chest while he was selling CDs in front of a convenience store, seventy-five miles up the road in Baton Rouge. A day after that, Philando Castile was shot in the passenger seat of his car during a police traffic stop in Falcon Heights, Minnesota, as his girlfriend recorded the aftermath via Facebook Live. Then, the day after Castile was killed, five policemen were shot dead by a sniper in Dallas. It felt as if the world was subsumed by cascades of unceasing despair. I mourned for the family and friends of Sterling and Castille. I felt deep sympathy for the families of the policemen who died. I also felt a real fear that, as a result of what took place in Dallas, law enforcement would become more deeply entrenched in their biases against black men, leading to the possibility of even more violence. The stream of names of those who have been killed at the hands of the police feels endless, and I become overwhelmed when I consider all the names we do not know—all of those who lost their lives and had no camera there to capture it, nothing to corroborate police reports that named them as threats. Closed cases. I watch the collective mourning transpire across my social-media feeds. I watch as people declare that they cannot get out of bed, cannot bear to go to work, cannot function as a human being is meant to function. This sense of anxiety is something I have become unsettlingly accustomed to. The familiar knot in my stomach. The tightness in my chest. But becoming accustomed to something does not mean that it does not take a toll. Systemic racism always takes a toll, whether it be by bullet or by blood clot.

Marriage is so important in modern America that we even have a legal term, “ex-wife”—and a related social term, “ex”—that applies equally to an ex-wife and to an ex-girlfriend. And because English is generally nongendered, it also refers to an ex-husband and an ex-boyfriend. (We don’t have an English verb for the feeling one has for an ex, but Russian conveniently does: razlubit’—literally, to “unlove”—is how you feel for someone you used to love. It’s like the English “falling out of love.”)

Most people don't learn things along the way. Or if they do, they conveniently forget those things when it suits their need. Most people, given a second chance, fuck it up completely. It's one of those laws of the universe that you can't shake. People, I have noticed, only seem to learn once they get their third chance—after losing and wasting vast sums of time, money, youth, and energy—you name it. But still they learn, which is the better thing in the end.

Roxanne, I’m so disappointed in you. I don’t even have words,” Coach’s voice booms. Suddenly, I forget that I’m sleep-deprived, dizzy, and irritable. Did Rox finally tell him she’s knocked up? When she doesn’t say anything, it sounds like he bangs on the desk. “Who’s the damn father? I want a name.” I glance around, looking for that weasel dick Ezra, but he’s conveniently MIA. “I’m going to ask you again,” Coach bellows. “Who’s. The. Father?” Silence. “Roxanne, do you even know who the father is?” He did not fucking ask her that. Then I hear it. The weeping. I don’t make a conscious decision to go in there, but next thing I know, I’m standing in front of Coach, ready to remove his head from his body. “Don’t fucking talk to her like that.” I must have a death wish. Roxy has her face in her hands. Leaning down, I pull her into my arms. “It’ll be okay, biscuit. Stop crying.” She wraps her arms around my waist and sobs against my chest as I glare at her dad. Like an angry bull, his nostrils flare. “You.” That’s all he says. He’s doing some kind of deep breathing thing that makes me think he might keel over and die. Which would be bad. I might hate him sometimes, but I know he’s a good guy. Deep, deep down. “Coach, it’s not the end of the world. Women have babies every day.” “I should’ve known.” That Roxy would get pregnant? “Coach, you need to calm down before you say something you regr—” “You fucking did this.” Me? “You’re the one who made her cry.” He points at me. “You got my daughter pregnant.” I freeze. I don’t budge an inch. He thinks I did this? That I knocked up this gorgeous girl and let her come in here to give him the news by herself? What kind of asshole does he take me for? The biggest kind. Of course he thinks I’m the culprit. Not Ezra, who’s been cheating on his high school girlfriend for years and kisses Coach’s ass at every opportunity.

Tracy, just like so many women, had been conditioned to be nurturing and to tend to the needs of others since girlhood. We grow up socialized to think that giving nonstop is what makes us a great girlfriend, wife, or mother. Even when we’re gasping for our last breath, we put the oxygen mask on others first. But while we’re out trying to win the martyr badge of honor, we don’t realize that we’re just avoiding dealing with our own stuff. You see, when you’re constantly taking care of the emotions of others, you don’t have to face your own. How convenient!

I know, but there were all those people there, and you just don’t go around outing someone like that . . .” “Yeah, well you just don’t go around fucking your best friend’s dad either, you prick!” For a moment I thought she was going to hit me again, but she pulled it back. “That’s a fucking convenient sense of ethics you’ve got going on there, girlfriend.