This morning, I read A Letter To The Girl You’re Hooking Up With But Will Never Marry. It was logical, straight-forward, and for a moment, I found myself nodding in agreement. Until I didn’t. Here is my rebuttal:
We meet again. It seems you’re on the other end of every penis I meet. I received your letter, and it found me well, and by well, I mean well vodka, because that’s the only thing I’ve eaten in 36 hours. Thank you for taking the time to formally explain to me that the way I’m feeling right now is actually my fault for daring to have any expectations of you. I also appreciate that you continued to alleviate any lingering feelings of guilt you may have by affirming to me that I’m beautiful, and fun, and smart, and awesome in every way. I know I’m awesome. My awesomeness, in fact, is the exact reason that you fucked this whole thing up so badly. I regret to inform you that your entire argument was completely invalidated by the first three words of it: “I like you.”
When we first began this little love…excuse me, fuck saga, I had no interest in getting to know you as a person. Seriously. I had my father to buy me things and my gay to carry heavy objects. All I needed from you was sex and the trifecta of reasons to have a man around would have been complete. Despite what you in your little man brain may believe, I am completely capable of casual, emotionless sex, so long as it remains casual and emotionless. Of course it didn’t, and for that, I blame you.
I assumed your feelings on the matter were congruent with mine, as you jumped on the chance to say “I’m not looking for a relationship” during our second encounter. I found this to be awfully presumptuous, because no one was trying to be your fucking girlfriend. It’s funny how you think having stated that in the beginning completely negated everything you would later do, relieving you of any responsibility for my feelings thereafter. To put it in perspective, I would like to bring your attention to something I said right off the bat: “I don’t do anal.” Despite this immediate declaration, the more liberal I got in the bedroom, the more often you tried to sneak in the back door, each time more disappointed than the last that I wouldn’t let you do so. See how easy it is to forget what was said when what is being done seems to suggest the opposite eventual outcome? Yet here we sit, I without a boyfriend, and you without the pleasure of acquainting your man meat with my sphincter.
For a little while, things were going great. We’d get drunk. We’d go home together. You’d drive me home in the morning, and we’d have minimal contact with one another until the next time we were drunk and horny. Upon arrival to my apartment, I’d feign shame in the presence of my roommates, when really, I’d always had a great time, and couldn’t have been happier with where things were going, which was generally only from the bed, to the couch, to on top of the dryer, to the shower, to the kitchen counter, and back to the bed. We had a grand ole time.
Then, it happened. Overcome, I’m assuming, by my aforementioned awesomeness, you decided we should have breakfast one morning. Why not? We’d already gotten to know each other pretty intimately, pretty regularly, and by the looks of it, I was a laid-back chick who probably liked the occasional bangover bagel. It was on the way to my apartment anyway. No. From there things only got worse. You began inviting me to drink with you instead of just meeting up with you after you’d been drinking. No. Eventually, alcohol didn’t even have to be involved at all. NO. Then came the cuddling. The forehead kisses. The “just wanted to talk” texts. The hand-holding. The “you’re beautifuls.” No, no, no, no NO.
The fuck and chuck, I could have handled. We were mutually using each other. But this? This weird, pseudo-relationship limbo? This was too much. I was fine when you just wanted to eat *ahem* your cake, but I got confused when you wanted to have it too. He must like me, I thought. I guess he IS kind of cool, I thought. Maybe I actually like him too. And maybe it was an underlying desire for attention, or maybe it’s just because it seemed easy at the time, but just like that, I was trapped in a windowless dungeon of “I like you, but.”
I know you didn’t wine and dine me to get in my pants, because you were already there. This sweet-ish, caring-ish coaxing you put me through, was not only unnecessary, but utterly confusing. I hate comparing myself to a prostitute as much as the next girl, but to quote Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman: “I appreciate the whole seduction thing you’ve got going on here, but let me give you a tip: I’m a sure thing.”
Being nice to me was the meanest thing you could have done. If the majority of our conversations had continued to be “Your place or mine?” believe it or not, I could have done it forever, or at least until some guy with a bigger…bank account came along and I got bored of you. I didn’t want you to ask me out, I didn’t want you to call me when I was sober, and I didn’t, under any circumstances, want you to tell me that you liked me for anything more than my tits. I never wanted you to be a Prince Charming until you started acting like one.
I don’t feel rejected, and I don’t feel like a “victim” of douchebaggery. I feel stupid. And I feel angry at you for making me feel stupid. I started out as some cool, carefree girl, now here I am, crying over a failed relationship that I DIDN’T EVEN WANT TO BEGIN WITH. I know you think that I mistook our tryst for a blossoming relationship because estrogen told me to do so, but really, I mistook our tryst for a blossoming relationship because EVERYTHING about the situation told me to do so…except for you of course, who told me one time, four months ago that this was “just for fun.”
So, my dear boy, I am glad you ended this relationship before you got in too deep, and thanks so much for pushing me down first (literally and metaphorically), to keep yourself afloat just a little bit longer, but I will, undoubtedly regard you as an asshole for doing so, much like you’ll regard me as a psychopath for randomly calling you cry-screaming at 2AM in three months from now for ruining my life. I know it’s dramatic, but you really brought it upon yourself.
Good luck to you in the future. Just kidding. Go fuck yourself.
Yours for never,
The girl you’ll never marry.