There’s a pattern that my mind has recognized: petite girls develop insecurity through their less than perfect sexuality, as a result they use deceptive tactics on desperate men to validate their sexuality. They ask you out, knowing you’ll come crawling—broken spine and contorted just to get to them. Ask them into your world (say, to share an experience) and their power is out of the game, and they’re no longer interested. This is their world: they’re the player and you’re getting played; they only like who doesn’t like them—the truly valuable. It’s besetting dealing with these petite things.
They’ll remind you of your pathetic neediness every time. The sex doesn’t matter, but the disrespect you put yourself through does. This is love—giving yourself to something, but this attraction was much cheaper and more seductive. The outer beauty and glib talk conceal the looming beast; it’s only job is to feast on your desire to feast. It was your fault to begin with. Learn their game to feast on their hunger instead.
Sublimation for My Turmoil 