Your 20s are that crucial time of exploration you’ll never get back when, say, you’re in your 30s and doting on your loving family. But right now, there’s always time for the shithead-next-door.
They think that I am smart and/ or pretty and/ or cute and/ or fun to be around and/ or chill and/ or tolerable but mostly because they either aren’t looking for more than a brunette who is conscious or someone who fits the freakishly-detailed but completely bloodless list they made for themselves when they first started ‘seriously looking.’
You won’t get over someone else, if that’s what you’re trying to do. I’ve heard that you can get over someone by getting under someone else, but I’ve experienced the unreality of this claim. Sorry.
We all went to a party. I was still wearing a suit. You wore a red cocktail dress so I wouldn’t look so out of place.
I’m trying to do this thing where I love myself more, and unavailable men are like self-esteem vacuums.
You wanted things from me and you knew how I felt about you and you used those feelings and you used me. So I want you to know how I feel now, since you knew how I felt then.
I dated sporadically and unsuccessfully in college, fluctuating between a lot of tears and frustration and not being able to understand why I was so unlovable and gleefully listening to other people b-tch about their relationships while I wore full-on acne masks to bed in a comforter covered in Cheez-it dust.
I kind of always assumed first dates were like Tim Burton movies without Johnny Depp or getting famous through Myspace: they don’t happen anymore. Or like recycling: something people talk about doing and then never actually do. (Just kidding! I recycle more than I’ve ever been happy about a first date!)
There was the Guy Who Made Me Want to Brush My Teeth. There was the Guy Who Laughed Too Loud in the Movie Theater. There was The Guy Who Called Me “Fuzzy Ninja” in a Text.