The Perfect Woman. At 23, I met a beautiful girl. No idea how I got her—no game yet. She liked me, eager post-college guy fixing insecurities. She crushed me, okay. But I overcompensated extremely. Had to master game: find her again, keep her. End goal happy relationship morphed—game became end. Perfect woman slipped, became monster: sex on demand by third date, exact fit or fuck off. Dating pursuit hardened heart.

Part wishes she swept me up. I’d see women beyond numbers, stories. Happy relationship, whipped, soulless job, mortgage. She’d care, love; I’d reciprocate. Capable then. Instead rabbit hole deeper, darker. Too much experience, easy attention, cheap thrills. Can’t undo naked bodies, smells on fingers driving home, score fantasies, moans, kisses, recycled jokes laughs. Dating desensitizes. Happy LTR with “perfect” girl farther yearly. “Better” at meaningless sex. Girls blur. Can’t stop.

Validation junkie? Attention whore like girls I criticize? When she dumped, I cried, begged stuff back. Parked gas station, sobbed baby-like. Today? No shit given—that’s problem. Machine with flesh, no empathy, love. Another night, performance. She wasn’t perfect, close. Any decent-looking made perfect—little effort. Haven’t lately. Dating truth: game kills innocence. Experience numbs connection. Early pain taught love; endless conquests erase it. Balance lost forever.

She’s gone. Experience killed perfect woman. Means nothing now. Game addiction trades depth for volume. Early vulnerability built bonds; polished seduction collects notches. Happy relationships demand heart she once had. Now machine runs scripts. Can’t stop, others do. Perfect morphed fantasy monster. Regret whispers: settle then? Too late. Dating journey: innocent love to cynical conquest. Readers: game wisely, keep humanity. Or become ghost feelings. Experience sword—wields wisely or cuts soul