I was in a relationship with a guy for four years. In that amount of time, he cheated on me more times than God could count, missed two of my birthdays for reasons other than being legitimately busy, chose drugs over me on several occasions, broke up with me to date another girl for a month before he decided she was too much of a cunt, yet still somehow treated me like a princess and turned me into a naive, lovesick pile of stupid teenager. I hate the hell out of him. I have a new, wonderful boyfriend who bends over backwards for me and believes perfection exists in no other form than me waking up in the morning, and I’m jealous that a coke-addicted hoodrat is going to marry the guy who often treated me like I was slightly less important than the last shit my dog took. Why?
Why? Because you are a child, and children cry when they lose their toys.
It didn’t matter that the toy was broken and dangerous. You liked that the toy had sharp edges and small parts that were a choking hazard. Playing with that toy made you feel like a big girl.
It was your favorite fucking toy, and even though you’ve got a new toy, a safe toy, one with round edges made of soft, non-toxic material, you’ll still be damned if some bitch from the wrong side of the sandbox is gonna play with one of your old toys.