Dear reader, at the risk of sounding like the ultimate uptight wet blanket of a killjoy — no, I do not wish to have a little fun with any tall, dark, and handsome strangers, at the moment. (Not even if you’re as iconic and sardonic as John Bender from The Breakfast Club.) I think I’ve had as much fun as any woman could possibly stand, when it comes to entertaining the antics of terrible men. Sure, you can drink your beers or smoke your dope, and we can even wind up in bed together for an hour or two of naked frolicking. But all that kind of fun ever does, at the end of the day, is leave me in a hole I have to try to haul myself out of, again. Oh, sure, I might get a text message from you later on, informing me of how much fun you had. Great, I think to myself. I’m so glad you enjoyed yourself, you stupid lunkhead. Now where’s my compensation, for providing you with such lovely amusements? But, of course, no such compensation ever arrives — only increasing demands for my time, my energy, my attention, and of course, my body. Well, I’ll tell you what: I think I’m quite finished with fun, as it relates to your definition. I’m done with being your emotional convenience store, your ever-attentive sounding board, or the receptacle for your self-centered sexual energy. Please, go find your own fun, with the kind of person who might genuinely enjoy your intermittent crumbs of affection. As for me? I’ll be over here, having my own (sustainable and fulfilling) version of fun. What would you like to do? I’ll ask myself attentively, choosing my answers freely and truthfully, for a change. Then that’s exactly what we’ll do! comes the response I’ve waited for my whole life — and that I’m finally brave enough to give myself, now. ❤️‍🔥—Y.B.D.