A/N: This is the prologue to a four-shot. If anyone has read Story of My Life, that's basically where I got this idea. Not very original, but I couldn't help myself. This is a short chapter, but if you want me to continue, it gets better.

Disclaimer: I don't own GG or Story of My Life. All rights go to the respective artists.

I'm in love with a self obsessed, heinous, gorgeous sex maniac. I don't believe in unrequited love or any of that. But I know without a doubt that he will plague me for the rest of my life. I am inflicted with a disease. There is no cure for this disease. It is the malady of loving someone so like yourself, and yet completely the opposite. I know I will never rid myself of this infection. He will always be there, leering at me with those lustful, exotic eyes of his and in the same breath, always turning away from me. Story of my life.

That's what this is. I need to get away from him, knowing that I cannot. He has no right coming up to me when I'm with one of my beaus and act offended. Really, he should know that this is all for him. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be trying (to no avail) to find someone who isn't self destructive.

That's how I met Dean. He is my anti-love which is why I'm with him. I can really love him, or at least pretend to quite convincingly. He's blonde, blue eyed, doesn't do drugs, and has a basic steady lifestyle. He's a business man. He's rich. That's enough for me.

Dean is actually sort of like Nate except a lot smarter. Not just in looks, but he's actually a pleasant person. He's nice. He doesn't try to rip me apart. Every conversation isn't a power struggle. It's pretty much perfect. The problem with perfect is that its only an image. Things that seem perfect are usually not.

There's only one thing that bothers me to my very core. It shouldn't. Its just a physical thing. He listens when I talk. He's nicer still. (There's that word again... nice.) He pretends to understand. He gets the obviousness of the situation but lacks the quality that allows him to instantly be able to relate. Only one person has that ability. And I'm trying my damndest to leave him in the dust. If only he would make it that easy.

There's still that other thing that I can't let go. It's such a superficial and, well... Upper East Side thing to think. The one thing that I can't shake is the sex. Its nice. It's tentative. It's sweet. But somehow, its just not right. Its not passion. Its not fire. It doesn't swallow me whole. It doesnt have that stupid sensation that makes me literally go numb and lose the ability to spell my own name.

So there it is. I'm in love with a self obsessed, heinous, gorgeous sex maniac. But I'm not with him. Story of my life.