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On February 13, the day after my encounter with the married man and the day before Valentine’s Day, I posed a casual and somewhat thoughtless poll question to my followers: “Can Summer go 100 days without boys?

” Invoking the well-known 2009 Zooey Deschanel rom com, I casually added a tongue-in-cheek hashtag: #100Daysof Summer.

Tuesday didn’t even try his hand (or any other part of him) at making me feel good, but my messy history with men told me that despite the disappointment, I’d probably jump into another unfamiliar bed soon enough.

Baby and I ordered a heart-shaped pizza and some brownies and watched Hercules on Netflix. Day 4: I had a great weekend with some old friends in North Carolina, eating great food and singing karaoke.

I had no boys to constantly text and distract me from our adventures. Day 8: One of the aforementioned friends offered to do a boudoir photo shoot for me.

He responded fairly well, and we went our separate ways. Having almost always had a partner, I tended to fill the single void with endless swiping on Tinder and fruitless exchanges of text messages.

After countless bad hookups, I’m not sure what it was about this particular orgasmless experience that caused me to be fed up, but fed up I was. Tuesday, but I also turned around and immediately cancelled dates with Mr. Before I knew it, I had so many conversations going that I couldn’t even place a name with a late-night “wyd.” As soon as I took a minute to look up from what I was doing, I didn’t even understand how I had gotten here.

All appearances would indicate that the #100Daysof Summer was working out great for me.

In just the first ten days, I was getting more sleep, spending more time with friends, adopting healthier habits, and feeling more confident.

But I did start to recognize that my boy-crazy coping mechanisms were wasting my time and my energy. I came to Instagram first as a poet but then as a self-proclaimed slut who needed a safer place than Facebook to share my sexcapades with the world.

Following in the footsteps of some of my friends, I had started a “Finsta,” a place where I detailed my sexual encounters, explored my messy attempts at polyamory, and posted nude photos with cartoonish filters that would fly under the radar of Instagram’s Nipple Police.

As I got home and crawled into bed, I groaned at the time glaring back at me in bright orange from my alarm clock.

Drifting off to sleep, I asked myself the question I often did: “What the FUCK am I doing?

” The following day, when he texted me and asked me how my day was going, I didn’t beat around the bush.

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