Cool girl. Men always use that, don't they? As their defining compliment. She's a Cool girl. Cool girl is hot. Cool girl is game. Cool girl is fun. Cool girl never gets angry at her man. She only smiles in a chagrin loving manner and then presents her mouth for fucking. She likes what he likes. When I met Nick Dunne, I knew he wanted a cool girl and for him, I'll admit, I was willing to try. I wax stripped my pussy raw. I drank canned beer watching Adam Sandler movies. I ate cold pizza and remained a size 2. I blew him... semi regularly. I lived in the moment. I was fucking game. I can't say I didn't enjoy some of it... Nick teased out in my things I didn't know existed. A lightness, a humour, an ease. But I made him smarter, sharper, I inspired him to rise to my level. I forged the man of my dreams. We were happy pretending to be other people. We were the happiest people we knew. And what's the point of being together if you're not the happiest. But Nick got lazy. He became someone I did not agree to marry. He actually expected me to love him unconditionally then he dragged me, penniless, to the naval of this great country and found himself a newer, younger, bouncier Cool Girl. You think I'd let him destroy me and end up happier than ever? No fucking way. He doesn't get to win!
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