The more I think about boys and how I think/behave concerning those handsome demons, the more I’m convinced I belong in a padded room in a building at the end of a long road without street lights. I’m fucking insane. There is no logical explanation or excuse for the person I become when I like a boy.
It’s not really predictable. Sometimes, I’m irrationally dismal, because the hotter the guy, the harder you’re screwed (and not in the fun naked way) from the start. I go into this knowing there are going to be casualties. And sometimes, I fall for someone before I’ve learned their last name. Sometimes, I kind of psychotically tango between the two.
Why can’t I, a living breathing chocolate sculpture dressed to the tees on most days, be romantically blessed? Is it because I’m bat shit crazy? Because I’m a conceited piece of shit? Because I love America more than I will ever love a man? All possible. But the more that I think about it, the more that I think the college culture of hookups and relationships is to blame for me, and tons of girls like me, being single.
And let’s be clear; I’m not talking about the girls that can’t keep their pants on for more than 20 minutes when they’re talking to a new guy, because if you expect relationships out of that you’re a moron that needs to learn a thing or two about self control. I’m talking about the ridiculous, phonebook sized collection of unwritten rules about when, where and how you’re supposed to approach “romance” as a college aged person.
You can’t seem to desperate, but you can’t seem too distant. You can’t seem like too much of a slut, but you have to keep him interested. You want to seem like a good time, but you don’t want to scream “I need better parenting and something in my mouth.” It’s a ridiculous balancing act that leaves most college aged women on the brink of being institutionalized.
Was there ever a time where you could actually soberly approach someone you didn’t know and something decent came out of it? Like an actual date?
Well now that I think of it, yes. Once upon a time before I was a fat, distraught college student, I was on the train having some random conversation with a coworker, and noticed a ridiculously handsome stranger sitting across from me, and in some superhuman adrenaline fueled surge of courage, told him that I liked his tattoos and thought he was “very handsome,” I shit you not.
As thirsty as it sounds, I promise the execution was much less thotesque. Before we parted ways, I gave him my number, and before I got home from the train, he had already texted me. The conversation was actually great, and as much as I was anticipating him to turn it into something gross, I couldn’t have been happier to have been proved wrong.
That Friday, I met him after work and went to the beach and talked about life. Then we went to the Commons and talked about life. Then I introduced him to my favorite pizza place in Boston, and then we went to the Charles River. It was dark, and the city of Cambridge illuminated the night in the most beautiful, #instabasic way. As simple as it was, it was easily the most romantic day of my life, and I owe it all to me metaphorically growing a pair.
Guys approach girls less and less these days, and you can’t blame them. For all a guy knows, you could not only be a complete bitch (if a guy approaches you respectfully and you humiliate him you are indeed a bitch) and eviscerate his self esteem just for the hell of it, but accuse him of “harassment” for saying fucking hi, so no wonder they’re less enthusiastic about approaching women. So, the ball’s really in our court. Instead of being godless sickos trying to hook up on Yik Yak and secretly hoping that a Tinder hookup becomes something more, we need to like, actually talk to people, and not just when we’re hammered and look like hookers in training. Let’s stop trying to strategically upload provocative selfies to get attention from guys, and start having conversations with them.
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