Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Letter to all (straight, looking for a relationship, single) men.
Dear single (or as my luck would normally have it, not so single) men of the world (or more specifically south-central Nebraska),
No, I do not want you to send me a text message photo of your penis.
I am aware that there are some really good guys out there, but chances are, you are not one of them, no matter how many times you may claim to be.
There is nothing wrong with me. I don't need to be changed, or persuaded, or saved. Even though I am extremely strong in my political beliefs, I also understand that other people have differing opinions than myself, let's have a conversation about it rather than an arguement.
No, I will not send you a text message photo of my breasts.
Chances are, no matter how cool you actually believe yourself to be, unless your name is Johnny Depp, you are NOT cool. You are a loser. You are single for a reason, or many reasons. You are most likely not worthy of my time or attention, and the fact that I'm giving you this much is a miracle. I am worth waiting around for if I tell you I'm not ready for a defined relationship.
I am strong and independent and able to support myself. I can unclog a drain, fix a dryer belt, and unclog a garbage disposal. I don't need you for any of those things. I work hard, and I play hard, but I also really enjoy spending quiet nights at home on my couch with a book or a movie.
No, I do not want to feel your abs.
I have been hurt in the past, just like you, and I may hold some of the past pains up to the things you are offering me. I will be upfront and honest about doing this, and I expect the same. We can work it out, together.
I do not need to be told every other sentence how beautiful you think I am. It's nice to hear it every once in a while, but if you say it too much, I start thinking that the only reason you want to spend time with me is because you think I'm so beautiful. I am so much more than my appearance.
I can be a bitch. A real, honest to God, raging bitch. If I bite your head off, I promise I will eventually make up for it. I have a good sense of humor, but I will not laugh at your pathetic attempts at humor. I will not laugh at pathetically stupid movies. I will laugh if you happen to drop food on your shirt, or spill your drink on your lap.
I will give you the world on a silver platter, but I expect nothing less in return. I will be your rock. I will be your shoulder to cry on, your arms to comfort, and the voice on the other end of the line when you need nothing more than a voice.
I am not asking you to give me the world. I am perfectly capable of going out and seizing the world by the balls on my very own. I just want you to give me all of you. Every honest, raw, disgusting little bit. You have to listen when I talk, not just pretend to. You can't talk to me like I am either a child, or one of your employees, because I am neither.
Oh, and it'll probably help your case if you are good in bed.
All my (maybe) love,