The Pursuit of Butterflies

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I've decided to donate my brain to psychiatry.
I would donate my hormones, id and libido but no one wants them.


Upon examination of my brain, someone very clever might finally understand what drives me to idiocy and self deprecation in my incessant pursuit of the wrong man. 

I hear that there are more women like me and that the literature on the subject is abundant, but I haven't read any of it because I would be forced to recognize myself and stop it. 

My attraction to the unattainable is teetering between the ridiculous and the absurd.

I've been told that even available - emotionally or otherwise - guys can be exciting, could keep my attention and would make the butterflies flutter. They did decades ago, but we were all available then. We married them, divorced them and the rest is history. 

There should be a speed dating event for us good ones -  women and men alike - those of us who like the bad boys and the bitches, respectively. We would speed interact with each other with kindness and attention and bore each other to death. When they finally scrape our corpses off the floor and donate our brains to psychiatry they will discover that we are basically fine human beings with a few scratches here and there, and a few wounds that never healed. 

At the very least, they will discover that we tried as hard as we could to do the ineffable right thing. Most of the time we managed. 

But once in a while we really missed those beautiful butterflies.