It’s Not That I Don’t Like You, It’s That Your Name Is Donald

You’re great.

Really.

I love that you want to pet every dog you see and agree with me that Sandra Bullock romcoms are weirdly enjoyable. My mom thinks you have genuine eyes and my sister says you smell good. Not sure if you know this, but whenever you’re excited about something, you crinkle your nose like a god damn sitcom character and I melt. Dude, I just melt.

See, I do like you.

Really.

The day we met you offered to buy me a drink and something in me said yes. I rarely say yes. Honestly, I hate people! I mean, okay, not really. I’m just indifferent. People come and go and I’m perpetually shrugging. In fact, I’m jealous that bears hibernate. Doesn’t really translate into social butterfly, you know? I don’t come alive in the nighttime. I’m constantly mad that I’m even alive. My therapist and I are working on it.

This might seem out of left field. I know, I know. We like the same things and even share a gluten allergy! Does quinoa bother you too? I’ve noticed it causes me some intestinal discomfort, but I digress.

You’re cool. You’re intelligent and think Crazy Ex-Girlfriend is criminally underrated. Your sweat is never bothersome and your dick even tastes good. Okay, not good, but decent. Your dick tastes decent.

But this isn’t going to work out.

Your name is Donald and given the current political climate, I’ll never be able to scream out the D-word during sex. And you know how vocal I am.

Funny, I actually had a huge crush on a guy named Donald in college. But he never went by it.

What’s your middle name? Could you start going by that?

 

Oh, it’s Paul Ryan? Ugh. Who are your parents? Why did they do this to you?

 

Would you be comfortable if I said the names of previous lovers in bed instead? Because if you’re okay with it, maybe I could make this work.

If not, we might have to cut our losses and say goodbye.

Honestly, it’s not you. It’s him. I’m sorry. Maybe we could try again in four years?