So there I was, a wee college freshman, sitting in an all night diner playing stupid games with a girl we'll call "J", for purposes of this story. The thing you have to understand about J is that when I was in high school, I was straight up in love with this girl. I wrote at least 5 terribly angsty songs about her (my blunder years were full of acoustic guitar). After several hours, we decided it better to go back to my place and watch a movie than bother the wait staff all night. I'm sure anyone with a halfway decent imagination can imagine what happened next. She complained about her recent breakup with boyfriend A, I showered her with adulation, we explored our emotional selves and how we had grown as people and deserved someone who was going to treat us the way we deserve to be treated... aaaaand then she let me raw dog her. For two weeks. It was almost surreal that I had what I wanted after all these years.

Then she ghosted me and started posting "We reconciled! So happy!" pics with boyfriend A on Facebook. I was devastated. I loved this girl. I was there for her... and she chose him over me.

Three years pass. J finally decides to leave boyfriend A for good. I, the doting blue-pilled orbiter, oblige her and provide her with ample emotional support and affirmation. Naturally, she returns the favor by leaving 4 days worth of questionable stains on my sheets (side note: don't buy white sheets). She chose me in the end, it seems. Suck it, boyfriend A!

Enter creepy older guy B, who shows up and almost immediately becomes boyfriend B. I was very disappointed, but not entirely surprised. I'm still a hopeless romantic (read: "beta cuck who doesn't value himself at all") Over the next 6 months, I occasionally listen to her talk about the myriad of problems she has with this relationship almost from day 1, and I eventually lose touch with her.

Two more years pass. I get a text from J. Things with boyfriend B finally got to be too much for her to handle. She's pretty drained and needs minimal emotional support. It takes all of about 20 minutes before she starts with the colorful phallic innuendo.

We fuck. Three times. Then twice more a couple of days later.

In the interval between the second and third iterations of this story, however, I had discovered this sub, and internalized something very important: She's not yours; it's just your turn. When she went back to Boyfriend B at the end of this particular tryst, as I suspected she would, I recalled how upset I had been before, and I remember wondering why I didn't feel it then. Was I to jaded to hurt? Had I no more blood left to bleed?

No: My perspective had changed.

My memory had always been that the girl of my dreams had broken my heart twice. How awful. Woe is me... but in reality, my high school crush just calls me every few years to have me come work on her pussy for a while and then disappears into the gloamin' with neither an "are you listening to what I just said?" nor a "who's 'Megan' and why are you texting her at 11 pm?". And I was sad about that? WAS I OUT OF MY FUCKING GOURD?

I don't profess to be a Red Pill master. I'm still very much a student: My weaknesses are many, and the road ahead is long. This gift of perspective through the lens of my own life experience has saved me from the crippling despair of oneitis on countless occasions. In fact, I'm writing this now to remind myself of just how valuable it is. And so, I leave you with my very favorite TRP maxim, a sublime pearl of stoicism and sage wisdom distilled into a single laconic phrase:

She's not yours; it's just your turn.