Fact one: you will never, no matter how hard you try, achieve closure. It’s almost more impossible to achieve than orgasm. It cannot happen, most markedly because you’re working with someone who’s internally dead on the other side. It’s not “men’s” fault, one supposes, that they can turn on and off like a light switch in such a way as to make you question how you, too, can transcend into such automaton status. What is “women’s” fault, however is their unquenchable desire to find closure.
Fact two: there’s a reason that one of the definitions of closure is: “a sense of resolution or conclusion at the end of an artistic work.” Note, this can only happen in a work of fiction, not real life. I mean, that’s why we’re all so fucked up, right? Going by the logic of works of art based on the three-act structure has made us believe that life should go in the according same way. “Women,” in particular, are sensitive to this pre-established rule formed by the diet of cinema and Jane Austen novels.
It doesn’t help that the “female” friends these “women” seeking counsel from shower them with bullshit like, “Maybe you can just keep sleeping with him if you want to, but I worry you’re just too emotionally attached.” It’s been said by a certain overly inquisitive fictional columnist that to have sex like a “man” is one of the ultimate “female” coups. This is because when you never fully engage your feelings, you’re at least not going to come out of the end of the prolonged fucking period (sometimes called relationships) looking like anything other than a needy douchebag with binoculars whipped out to find closure. Stop looking, he ain’t gon’ give it to you, just like he barely gave you enough consistent good dick.
Missing A Clit 