She attached herself to men who didn’t want her, pining after them from afar, trying to mold herself into something, not someone, they might desire, or just take because they’d blown their marriages with their stellar personalities, “douchebag ‘Christianity.’” Most spurned her, though they had never been worth her time, ugly, infantile men. It was a form of self-abuse, but a self-abuse she could not relinquish, and she reveled in fantasies that would only end in disappointment. Love was not her goal, even though she called it that. It was only subservience conditioned into her, greed she denied, and a childish need for a life inspired by the idiot box. Everything for her was tantamount to a sale of herself, and she refused to see it. And now she had nothing left to sell, though she still spurned sincere love.