Date a writer because they feel. They feel so strongly, so deeply, that every offhand word you said to them across the bar will be etched into their forearm like that time Harry Potter had to write with Dolores Umbridge’s quill. Nothing can be taken lightly, nothing can be forgotten — writers are composed of a thousand flowing, surging concepts and ideas, each one spawned from a single sideways glance. A simple “hello” will be torn apart and rebuilt into an essay about “goodbye.” Don’t worry, they will do the translating themselves.
A writer is not like you, or me. A writer is something more, something special. Unlike the unwashed masses who sit, Cheetos dribbling from their open mouths, in front of The Big Bang Theory — writers read. While a particularly well-drafted essay from Wilde or Fitzgerald might send them spinning into a depression from which they can only be rescued by life-affirming lovemaking, they will always be reading. They will be absorbing, learning, silently fuming at grammatical errors.
And they will make love to you. With their genitals, but also with their minds. They will reach into the depths of your most well-hidden childhood memories and tear forth the hard-wrought kind of orgasm that brings a tear to the corner of your half-closed eyes. And from the bursts of physical passion will come the writing. They will tear from the bed — sheet still wrapped around them — and retire to their wooden desk to transmute every last drop of seminal fluid into prose. With them, your sex will never die, it will only become a story.
Make love to them well, for their blogs are public, and their criticism withering.
Date a writer because they most likely have Asperger’s, but it’s the sexy kind that makes them either a doe-eyed Zooey Deschanel type or an enigmatic Tom Hiddleston onto which you can project all of your impractical fantasies. They are roughly 60 percent of a real person, just enough to fall in love with, not quite enough to create a stable future with. They will not have a checking account.
But you know, or you wouldn’t have read this, that what the writer lacks in a sense of responsibility or awareness of others, they largely make up for in coy, oddball dinner dates. While they wine and dine you under the stars on the roof of a middle school gymnasium, bringing with them only the essentials (a collection of Whitman’s best poems and a fresh pack of Zig Zags), every preconceived notion you’ve ever held about what you need to be happy will melt away. With them, you aren’t preoccupied with the tedium of bills or rent or calling your mother back. With them, everything is a fresh page on an open book, and life has the kind of beauty that you are normally unable to imagine from the confines of your soul-crushing desk job. They will rescue you from the futility cubicle life, one poem folded into an origami crane at a time.
Date a writer because they love. Date a writer because they live. Date a writer because they will have sex with you quickly, and then you can dump them for someone with an actual job.