I’m not saying I’m not guilty. I totally am. So partly, I guess, I’m writing this for me as well. Not just you.

We are smart people. We have brains and we hopefully have some sense that’s been knocked into our heads. Well, at least until it comes to boys and men and relationships. That’s my biggest downfall because my heart is too open and wide and soft. And I don’t know how to stop it from falling.

It blows my mind that I can sit here and miss someone who doesn’t give a shit about me. It blows my mind that I have friends who wait and wait for a guy who does not care. Why? What the hell are we doing?

It’s really, really sad that I continually put myself in a position where I am fully aware I am going to get hurt. But I do it anyway. I chase the dude who doesn’t care and end up on my bedroom floor with spilled wine and a lot to write about.

This isn’t me. This isn’t who I am. But yet, I do it over and over again hoping and praying that I can change someone. Hoping and praying that it’ll be different this time.

But you can’t change anyone in this world. You just can’t.

I’m not dumb, but I do dumb things (as does anyone). And I’m tired of being fooled. I’m tired of being that girl that wants and wants, and never gets anything in return. I’m tired of fully knowing that a guy is wrong for me, and going after him anyway.

And it’s not because I don’t love myself. Believe me, it took a long time but I can honestly say that I’m funny and badass and smart. And I do love me. I do. Maybe just not enough.

Because if I loved myself, I wouldn’t dance on top of bars to get my crushes attention. If I loved myself, I wouldn’t double and triple text another boy, just to be met by silence. If I loved myself, I wouldn’t care about the boy who told me he didn’t want anything serious. I wouldn’t care about the boy who ghosted me on Tinder. I wouldn’t care about the boy who wants my body, but doesn’t like the real me.

I am better than this crap. And so are you. It’s infuriating that we just lose our self respect just to get a taste of attention. Just to get a drop.

These guys aren’t worth it. Ad they know it. They milk it, for however long it lasts. They savor it. Knowing that we want them but we can’t have them. And it’s so tiresome. It’s so exhausting and demeaning. And I don’t want to do it anymore.

My friends tell me, Lauren, what the hell is wrong with you? You know better.

And I do. I know so much better.

But something about men who don’t want me, makes me want them even more. And I don’t know why. Maybe a part of me is broken or scared. I don’t know why I do this.

I don’t know why we all do this to ourselves. Because all it ends up to be is a broken heart and wounds that will take a long time to heal. All it ends up being is another story to tell. Another essay to write. Another person to cry about. Another glass of wine.