i’ve cheated on my girlfriend four times in the last three months. not like “oops, drunken kiss” either — i mean full-on, go-to-their-place, wake-up-regretting-it kind of cheating. every time i swear to myself it’s the last time. every time i think “okay, that was rock bottom, i’ll be better now” — and then the next week i’m texting someone else at 2am like i’ve learned absolutely nothing.

and now she tells me she’s pregnant.
like… what the actual f### do i even do with that information? my brain just froze when she said it. she’s sitting there with this hopeful look on her face, like we’re about to start some wholesome little family life together, and i’m nodding along like i’m not the absolute worst candidate for “dad of the year” in existence.

part of me thinks i should just vanish. block her, leave town, rip the bandaid off before i ruin her and the kid’s life even more than i already have.
but then i imagine her sitting there, pregnant and alone, and i feel this gross, gnawing guilt. like maybe i should at least try to do the right thing, even though i’m 99% sure i’d fail at it.

i don’t even know if i’m built for monogamy. i like the chase. i like the attention. i like the feeling of someone wanting me… until i actually have them, and then it’s like the switch flips and i’m already looking over their shoulder for the next thing. it’s disgusting. i disgust myself.

but there’s this tiny voice in my head going, “maybe this is the thing that finally forces you to grow the f### up.”
and the louder, uglier voice going, “or maybe you’re just going to keep s####### it up until there’s nothing left of you worth loving.”