You Say You Don’t Want A Boyfriend, But You Know That’s Not True
I know; I say the same thing. I write about it on my personal blog — the one where people I really know can read me and maybe talk amongst each other about how strong I am. It’s kind of odd how many of my posts over the last few months have been so intensely anti-man. I wonder what it must look like to someone who has never met me. For a few weeks, I thought I would get “misandry” tattooed on my wrist. But I would probably get fired from my job.
“Boys are disgusting.” “I don’t want to put up with yet another manchild’s belated coming-of-age that he has vicariously through me.” Then a bunch of Sylvia Plath quotes. I don’t know, it’s all kind of a mess.
I say that I am working on myself right now, and I am. My job is pretty good, and I think I might get a promotion soon. Recently, I’ve been treating myself to all of the things I used to consider extravagances that were much too rich for my blood. My nails always look nice, and I have a lot of new shirts. Things are going pretty well for everyone but my check card. And all of this can go under the heading of “self-care,” of paying attention to what my body is telling me it needs.
But my body also feels alone. And regardless of how many times I have been hurt by something wielding a penis and a ludicrous sense of entitlement, a man is what I want to lie down next to it when it is aching alone in my bed. And I could walk outside and get with any of the number of leering strangers or cat-calling blue collar workers or friendly faces on my OkCupid homepage. I could put a band-aid over the bullet wound and fuck someone just because I want to feel them moving around inside me and doing some sad version of filling me up, but I don’t want that.
I want to be in love. I want to get it over with so that I can move along to all of the other parts of life that seem so easy to achieve when someone at home cares about you. I want that feeling of imperviousness, of security, of having that major thing checked off the list so I can attend to everything else. And for me, it will necessarily come in the form of a boyfriend. Someone who is bound to me by nothing other than his own desire to see me in the sunlight every morning. In my (sometimes messy) bed.
I was seeing this guy for a little while a month ago, and we both knew it wasn’t going anywhere. And even though I didn’t ever expect to fall deeply, madly in love with him, I was still torn to pieces when he stood me up to get back with his ex whom I should have known he was rebounding off of. There was something about it that just seemed so awful, and so predictable. And worse than feeling hurt, I felt incredibly bitter. I wrote a poem about it, and then threw it away, because that’s the last thing I need right now: More words dedicated to people who will never dedicate a single thing to me.
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If you’ve been looking for a chance to say something then this very well could be it.
I wish to God I’d had a list like this when I was 23.
Answer phones better than anyone else has answered phones before. Relay messages so brilliant, they bring people to tears. Turn the coffee run into the choreography of Swan Lake. Become best friends with every intern and every underling and every taxi driver you encounter.
I remember taking the pen and notebook from that woman outside the courtroom, flipping to a clean page in the book, and writing, JESSICA IS SAD in big, bold, uncoordinated letters. “My sister is going to be a good writer someday! Look at how nice her lines are!”