The Honest Reason We Never Pick The “Nice Guys”


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Nice Move


“He’s trouble. I’m just warning you.” Those were the exact words a friend said to me on a not-so-long-ago Friday night. This is when I, the classy girl I am, said
“who the fuck cares,” rolled my eyes, and threw back two more shots before leaving with the guy. I know what you’re expecting from this story — I woke up the next morning disoriented, with a piercing headache and regret, and then promptly snatched a pair of sweats and sneaked out of his bedroom before he could wake up.

But you’re wrong because I’m better than that. And more importantly, because my friend was right. He was trouble. A hot AF “bad boy,” as my mom would call him, who didn’t want anything beyond someone in his bed. But I knew that. Even seven shots, two long islands, and four bombs in, I knew exactly who what I was doing. And I didn’t care because I knew he’d never hurt me. I knew what he was. If he were my soulmate, no way in hell would I have done that with such ease. I would have run, far far away to the next bar before I could be trapped in bed with that guy.

You probably think I’m crazy. That may be true, but I’m not wrong.

Picture this — you find the perfect guy. The one who says all the right things, does the right stuff, and would never, ever hurt you. But you never actually believe that, do you? We’ve all said that we knew they wouldn’t hurt us. That they were the one guy who wasn’t like the rest. But who are you kidding? The second he’s gone, you’re already three exes deep in his texts and know the name of his best friend’s neighbor’s cousin’s fraternity brother’s girlfriend’s childhood dog. Because there’s always that tiny underlying fear. The one you never realize you have until it becomes reality when you come home one day to find your best friend gasping for breath underneath your perfect, nice boyfriend in the sheets that he had so graciously picked out last month because he was just “so excited you’re moving in together.”

It’s when that glimmer of doubt becomes a reality that we realize how wrong we’d seen everything.

And that, my friends, is why we will always choose the wrong guys. Some call them assholes. Some call them fuckboys. Whatever your terms of endearment, we all choose them, even when we know we shouldn’t. Our roommates, sisters, and moms all tell us that he’s wrong for us. That we can do better. But the truth is we know they will hurt us from day one, so in fact, they never actually can. We take that power away from them the second we meet them. The guy you met when you were blacked at the local bar one night, who you’ve been hooking up with ever since, who never answers your texts in a timely manner? You know who I’m talking about. That’s the one who you outright expect to cheat. That’s the one you know it won’t last with. Because he was never yours to begin with. He belonged to the bar you met him at and to the three other girls he was deciding between before you stumbled up, reeking of vodka cranberries and a lack of dignity. It’s hard to be sincerely crushed by a guy who you knew gave his tattered “Rush Kappa Sigma” sweatshirt to countless girls before you so they could look more less slutty on the walk back home Saturday morning.

But the guy who you met in Biology freshman year, the one who always answers your texts with more than one word, the one who never fails to tell you how beautiful you are even when you haven’t showered in four days since yesterday? He’s the one you let your guard down for. You expect him to be the one. The one who isn’t like the other guys who cheated, left, or didn’t last past 8 a.m. the next morning. He’s the one you thought would change your mind about guys. But then he proved you wrong. All of the “nice boys” did. They either do cheat or they just stop responding to your messages and calls, because how could you not get the hint? That’s when it cuts the deepest. You knew they wouldn’t hurt you, so you caught the feels. But that’s when it happens.

And just like that, you’re back at the bar, downing your sixth vodka cran, and eyeing the hot guy that just walked through the door. Maybe you’ll get it right this time.

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