I cut quite a dashing figure as I sat there topless in my workout shorts, with a dozen Coke cans scattered throughout my floor and computer table. My iTunes was blaring some Iron Maiden at the perfect volume where it’s loud enough to rock, but low enough so my mom doesn’t yell at me. I sent out texts to my boys expressing my lack of plans for the night. They were either working or spending quality time with their “girlfriends.” Cocksuckers. As I worked my way through my phonebook hierarchy, at last reaching rock-bottom with that guy whom I drank a beer with once at my friend’s cousin’s friend’s house, it grew evident this would be one of those nights destined for failure.
To salvage the night, I did what most people do who are in that tender age where they’re legally allowed to join the military but not yet responsible enough buy their own alcohol—I went online. I logged onto MySpace, pathetically hoping someone had sent me a message or left a comment. To my bitter disappointment, there was only one comment, left by a monstrosity of a woman I had embarrassingly befriended: “To the world you may be just a person; to a someone, you may be the world.” People who post this sort of shit are the reason God invented anal sex.
After several moments of despair and self-loathing, I set out on the audacious quest to find some hot MySpace pussy. The lackluster results were disheartening. I saw women with broken dreams, fat bellies, nasty dreadlocks, and kids. These baby factories were the worst of all. Pictures of their little dream-crushers engulfed their profiles like they were the only humans in history to ever fucking give birth. Most of them were single, with that little bastard lingering as a permanent reminder of another man’s dick being in her.
As I sat there a cunt-hair away from the onset of irreversible misogyny, I found my precious little Shy Girl. She had a black-and-white default profile picture. It showed a side profile of her tight little body with well-proportioned breasts and butt. I looked through more of her pictures—she was a light-skinned, emerald-eyed, blonde-haired, heavily bosomed woman. I analyzed her every major and minor physical feature. I noticed how her nose was tiny and slightly perked up and how her eyebrows were always perfectly plucked. I examined her full lips and the slight mole on her right cheek.
There are a lot of pretty women, I thought to myself. Let’s see if anything makes this one special. I read her “About Me” section. She only identifies herself as Shy Girl because she didn’t want any creepers to know her real name. She is a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints who is majoring in psychology, and yet she doesn’t know what she wants to do with her life. She loves taking care of her nieces, nephews, and dog. Thinks modern hip-hop is stupid and loves muscle cars. This woman was tailor-made for me. My attraction swells, along with blood flow to my cock.
I must formulate the perfect message to her. I mustn’t appear too desperate, nor cocky, nor vague, nor specific, nor seem to care too much at all. I overthink the whole concept of writing a message and sit there staring at a blank screen. I type, type, type, FUCK, delete, delete, delete. Each word, sentence, and paragraph is dissected as I break a sweat attempting to sound casual. I repeat this retarded little dance for about an hour until I finally forge something worthy of being sent to my little Shy Girl. I finish correcting my grammar and spelling mistakes, give it a quick check for the fourth time, and hit Send to request her as friend. My heart sinks.
Thoughts of my little Shy Girl torture me in my sleep. I randomly get up and check my computer to see if she’s read what I’ve written. She hasn’t. I start thinking about the beautiful babies, shenanigans, and inside jokes we’ll have together. I wonder what our first interaction is going to be like. I wonder if she is the one for me. I wonder about our future first date. I wonder what her real name is. I doze off to a restless sleep full of rainbows and Shy Girl.
The entire next day I randomly check my computer and see if she’s read what I’ve written; she hasn’t. Finally—one day, three hours, and thirty-three minutes later—she read it. At last! I would get a response! I wait. An hour, then two, then four, and then a day passes and another. No response, friend request declined.
I stare at her page and I think of what could’ve been.
What a bitch.