He usually texts at around 2am. Sometimes I’ll receive a sober phone call in the afternoon to “say hi,” and other times it’s a 4am, “Hey, what’s up?” text. Never consistent, never expected, never sought after.
He usually texts at around 2am. Sometimes I’ll receive a sober phone call in the afternoon to “say hi,” and other times it’s a 4am, “Hey, what’s up?” text. Never consistent, never expected, never sought after.
I’m supposed to like a certain type of guy. I have constructed this ideal man in my mind who shapes my taste in guys. He differentiates the right guys from the totally wrong ones. Ideally, he would be the perfect mix of smart, adventurous, confident, cute, friendly, blah blah blah.
Let’s call this “ideal man” Tom.
If you’re an avid reader of my blog, you’ve noticed that my love life is a rollercoaster that is fun to watch (or read) from afar, but when you’re actually on it–well actually, that’s kind of fun too.
That being said, to the surprise of no one, I have yet to find a Tom.
I’m an active participant of the casual dating scene, but it’s not something that I try to hide. I’d like to think that I’m in the process of finding my “Tom” but I’m beginning to wonder if my Tom exists, or maybe I’m focusing too much of my time on finding Tom when there’s a perfectly good Justin right in front of my eyes.
At one point a couple of years ago I was fairly positive I found Tom, and I convinced myself that we were made for each other. But then I went abroad for 6 months and came home to find that the Tom who I thought I wanted completely changed.
I didn’t want that Tom. I wanted a different Tom.
My life is all over the place. Not in a bad way, but I’m always looking forward to the next big thing. I set my sights on the future that I often forget to live in the present which can sometimes be shitty, but that’s just where I’m at in life. Does this mindset affect my dating habits? Possibly, but I don’t think I’m ready to slow down.
I was seeing this guy in the beginning of the summer. On paper, he was everything that I thought I was looking for. The “whatever” relationship we were invested in didn’t require any overthinking on my part. He wanted to talk to me, he wanted to see me, he wanted to be with me. He was kind, smart, cute, and provided me with more attention than any guy that I had been with in a long time.
In theory, I should have wanted him back…but I didn’t.
When I ended things with him, I went back and forth with myself several times thinking, “Is this really what I want?” Like, I had finally found a guy that was seemingly everything a girl could want but I just couldn’t get myself to emotionally invest myself. Should I have to justify that?
In more ways than one, this guy possessed a lot of the attributes that Tom does. Like I said, he was kind, honest, and an all around amazing person. So wtf was wrong with me? Nothing, actually.
Simply put, I just didn’t fall for the nice guy. It was fairly easy to justify being honest with myself rather than holding onto something simply because he was nice and gave me attention.
Then, this other guy came around. Let’s call him the “wrong guy.” (Like I said, my love life is sort of hard to keep up with).
The way we met was bizarre and totally random. I received a direct message on Instagram (yes that’s actually a thing) with the message “I’m intrigued.” He had stumbled upon my blog therefore directing him to my other social media pages and before I knew it I was getting asked out for drinks via Insta DM.
I had never seen this guy before, but he seemed normal. From the Boston area, college grad, fairly attractive, etc. There was just one problem: our “circle of people” was connected in more ways than one for all the wrong reasons—ya feel me?
One minute we were messaging back and forth (still Instagram DM) and the next minute I was caught in the middle of drama that had erupted in 10 minutes flat. You know that old “eight degrees of separation” rule? Well, my life is like 2 degrees.
Regardless, he was still interested in hanging out but at that point I had quickly lost interest. I hadn’t even been talking to the guy for more than 2 hours and I had already gotten more than one “warnings” about him and was in the middle of a drama-fest I wanted no part of.
He definitely wasn’t a Tom…or so that what I had been hearing.
He soon became just another Insta follower and a miniscule piece of my past that was a funny story (or blog post) to tell. That time I got asked out on Instagram, lmao.
This guy started popping out of nowhere for the period of a month or so. I would receive random invites to grab drinks for which I would deny time and time again.
One afternoon, for the first time in my life, I was sitting in South Station eating lunch. I sat there in solitude, enjoying my Au Bon Pain coffee and salad from Panera listening to some acoustic mix on Spotify. My eyes wandered around a little bit, enjoying the people-watching scene.
It was him, Instagram guy was sitting the table directly next to me (again, can’t make this shit up). I watched him snap a picture of me out of the corner of my eye and I couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculous situation that I was currently in. Who the f*ck is this guy?
I had assumed the Snapchat read “Lol sitting next to Insta blog girl.~”
This guy who was once so irrelevant suddenly became so relevant in the most random of ways and I awkwardly became more intrigued to find out more about him…because like, how? Just, how?
One thing–or rejection–led to another and I reluctantly agreed to grab drinks with him (my text literally read “Fine.”). Because, why not? Judging from his social media pages I honestly thought he would be a giant d-bag…but I was pleasantly surprised.
We hung out a couple times and before I knew it we were splitting a bottle of wine on a rooftop apartment in the North End. And then I started to like him…shit.
His crude jokes and lack of emotions made me wonder why I actually felt a connection. In more ways than one, he was the “wrong guy.” He’s the guy that everyone warns you about, the one that you hate to give the satisfaction of the sending the first text to, but you do anyways–because who the hell knows?
I couldn’t explain the connection, but I kind of liked it that way. I liked the “wrong guy,” and I was totally OK with it. And plus, I knew I was moving away…so why not?
I know what you’re thinking. The classic “all nice guys finish last and girls are idiots” story. Well, if we’re being technical, I didn’t dump nice guy for wrong guy…I just felt a stronger chemistry with wrong guy. Does that make me an idiot? Maybe.
For the time being, I’ll probably continue to choose a Luke instead of a Tom, choose the thrill of the chase over not having to chase at all. I won’t blame you for my decisions, and I won’t ask you to pick up the pieces. You may think I’m stupid to have let the “good guy” go, but what if he just wasn’t good for me?
As much as I think I know what I want, I really have no idea. However, I’d rather choose the wrong guy and learn from it than settle for the nice guy simply because he’s nice.
Or maybe Tom is who I think I want, but a Kevin is who I’m meant to be with. I don’t know, but I’m having fun trying to figure it out.
I walked by him at a party, surrounded by strangers and the piercing sound of rap music that I had no interest in listening to. I had never seen him before, despite him being in the same grade as me.
“Beth’s the kind of gal you take home to your parents,” he drunkenly announced to his friends. He showed me off as we talked for a bit and something about him drew me in. Drunken conversations usually don’t have much of an effect on me, but for some reason I never wanted this conversation to end. I was into him, like, really into him.
“I wish I had met you sooner,” he confessed.
Leaving the party, I had instantly regretted not getting his number. I don’t know what it was about him, but something had stuck with me. I didn’t kiss him, I barely even touched him. I just hoped I would see him again.
He eventually became just another drunken encounter in my mind, and I allowed myself to forget about him as the end of senior year was quickly approaching. The following weekend, my friend tapped my shoulder and said, “Beth, isn’t that the kid who told you that you were wifey material?” I looked at her with confusion, my memory being fogged by the vodka soda that I had just quickly drank. She pointed over at him, and I looked. It was him.
I wish we had met sooner.
I told her I was going to the bathroom, but I was really just going in the direction of him, hoping that he would notice me and say hello. I started running into him every time we went out, but it was usually just a brief hello drowned out by the loud music and flashing lights in the background. I briefly acknolwedged him and we, again, parted ways. However, the anticipation of seeing him never seemed to die out. (Do I sound crazy yet?)
After countless run-ins at the bar, I had just expected to see him out by this point. He approached me one night and said, “I have been thinking about you a lot,” he admitted, “You’re just one of those girls that never really left my mind.” The words sounded genuine, but I wasn’t entirely sure of his intentions and I told him I felt the same way. Our conversation was nothing less than enjoyable, as we stood next to a few guys shooting pool. The feelings of our initial encounter came back, and once again, I never wanted the conversation to end.
So, it didn’t. We went back to his place that night.
The night I spent there wasn’t forced, it wasn’t uncomfortable, it wasn’t something that I regret. We stayed up and talked for hours, and I felt myself wondering what he was thinking about. He called me beautiful, he admitted to creeping me on Facebook after the first night we met, he told me he couldn’t stop reading my blog, that I was a fantastic writer. Was I just another girl to take home, or was he kind-of-sort-of-weirdly feeling the same type of connection that I was?
“I wish I had met you sooner,” he said once more.
The days after our night together sort of felt like a dream. Our texts back and forth were like a game of ping pong. Natural and fluid, but entertaining. He expressed interest in seeing me again, being forward in wanting to spend time together. However, I didn’t really expect much, because, are we ever really supposed to?
I felt myself wrapped up in this weird connection that I had been feeling that looking back, the words “I wish I had met you sooner,” should have stung. They should have been a red flag, a chance to escape the connection that I was feeling and solidify the fact that this was nothing.
I was kind of expecting something to come out of nothing.
I waited for his text the next day, and the next day after that. And the next day. But it never came. Ok, I thought, he’s clearly not into me, fine.
“Are you staying up in Amherst this week?” The notification popped up in my iPhone and I hated myself for smiling at it. “Yeah I am,” I replied.
Honestly, why did I care so much about this random person, and why was I sort-of-kind-of hoping for something to come out of it? I couldn’t say that I “liked” him, since our conversations mainly occurred under a few drinks deep, but sometimes it’s impossible to escape the feeling of hoping for something that seems out of reach.
He shouldn’t have mattered, but for some reason, he did.
He seemed to have lost interest pretty quickly, so I did too. I was no longer a “girl that he thought about a lot,” I was just another girl. Throughout the week, he texted me a couple of times but only to inquire what bar I was going to. There was no conversation and the interest that was once there seemed to diminish.
In his eyes, I was just another girl.
Two can play this game, I thought to myself. I strategically delayed my text response and eventually invited him over one last time the night before I left Amherst for good, and I was a bit nervous to get myself wrapped up in the fake connection that I had believed to be true all this time.
To my surprise, I didn’t feel anything. Although, I was sort hoping he would. We woke up the next morning, and he was quick to make his exit…not to my surprise.
“So, when are you planning on moving?” he asked the next morning as I walked him out.
“Um, this summer at some point.”
“Oh, OK, well we don’t live too far from each other, so maybe I can see you before you leave.”
I smiled and awkwardly kissed him goodbye, metaphorically saying goodbye to the college dating culture that has become all too familiar.
And, that was it. I would love to tell you he texted me immediately after, wishing me luck with everything, reiterating the fact that he wanted to see me again. But, he walked away and that was the end of the kind-of-sort-of weird connection that I had built up in my mind so quickly. It was the end of wishing something to come out of nothing.
At some point in our lives, we have all experienced a connection you can’t quite describe. We have all encountered that one person that you wish to see again and wonder if they feel the same way. I don’t know how he felt, or if I was just another girl in his mind. I don’t know if he wanted the conversations between us to end, or if he wanted them to last forever in the same way that I did.
It was senior year, so the timing was bad, I suppose. However, is there ever really a right time for anything? There are always things that you wish you had done or said sooner, people that you wish came into your life a little bit earlier. There are always going to be those people who you wonder if the “drunk words are sober thoughts,” statement rings true for them, or if they simply use the same lines on every girl they meet.
Or, maybe, there was never a connection. Maybe I just wanted to be someone’s somebody. Maybe I just wanted to hope for the impossible, because, don’t we all at some point? I know you told me that I was a “wicked awesome girl,” but I suppose I wasn’t awesome enough.
I don’t hate him, there are no hard feelings between the two of us. In fact, I think he’s a great guy. Disappointment has no perpetrator, it’s an emotion that we set ourselves up for. I’ll probably never see him again, and if I do, I’m sure the acknowledgement will be brief, if there is one at all.
I didn’t want nor expect it to turn into anything, but do we ever? Do we ever meet someone at a bar or a party and think “Yeah, this guy’s totally gunna fall for me.” Not usually. But, maybe that’s our problem. Maybe our problem is that we always expect nothing, even if we want to hope for something else.
Perhaps I do wish I had met you sooner, maybe the “nothing” would have turned into something if the timing was right. Or maybe I would have realized the connection was constructed out of the simple desire to feel wanted. I don’t know what would have happened, but I guess neither one of us will really ever know. Maybe I just wanted to expect something to come out of nothing because I was simply tired of expecting the latter.
Maybe I just wanted to be more than someone’s “sometimes.”
I was going to title this post “This Is What Happened When I Met A Tinder IRL” discussing about the time I unintentionally met a Tinder boy in real life a few days ago. The encounter was awkward, as expected, but the awkwardness seemed unwarranted for.
He sat at a table at the bar with a few of my friends. We had a brief conversation via Tinder only a few hours before, discussing our plans for the night. We both told each other our plans to go to the bar although I had no intention of actually meeting up with him.
“This is Brendan,” my friend said. He reached out his hand to shake mine. I looked up from the floor and my eyes met with his. Well, this is awkward, I immediately thought to myself. We both recognized each other and it was fairly obvious by the smirks we were desperately trying to hide, but neither one of us said a word about it. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said. I took my friends arm and headed to the bathroom, immediately blurting out, “OMG we just talked on Tinder 2 hours ago.” She laughed asked if I was going to mention it to him and I replied, “No way.”
Why do we Tinder? It’s fun, mindless, and an instant confidence boost, right? Sure. But, is that really why? Generation Y has given up on the idea of meeting the love of our lives in a coffee shop or randomly on the street. We have given up on the hopes of a fairytale romance, often blaming it on the fact that chivalry seems to be an antiquated piece of the past. It’s an idea that we often fantasize about, but it’s become taboo to approach a stranger at a coffee shop and call her beautiful. It’s become labeled as “creepy” to ask a girl on a date before texting her for weeks prior. The code of our dating culture insists we follow set of rules and guidelines before taking a leap of faith. It’s a set of rules that we often complain about, but invest ourselves in anyways.
We won’t meet our future husbands in a coffee shop, or from a random encounter on the street. We won’t meet them by spilling the contents of their briefcase everywhere or on the beach while we are nose deep in a trashy Bella Andre romance novel. They won’t save us from oncoming traffic or start a conversation with you in a laundromat when your sexy g-string awkwardly lands in their basket.
Our fairytale starts at a bar three tequila shots deep. It starts when you have the liquid courage to flirt with him, eventually landing back at his place, desperately texting your friends in the morning for a ride home to avoid the Walk of Shame. It continues with texts back and forth, a fair share of nights up wondering how he really feels about you. It either ends with two happy hearts or one heart desperately chasing another for something that will never be.
Since chivalry has been replaced with misconstrued text messages and the fear of rejection, and we have given up on the romantic-comedy fairytale that we all fantasize about. Where does that leave us? It leaves us with an app that you can swipe right or left. An app that doesn’t require much effort but gives you the attention that you crave and desire.
Do we Tinder because we’re bored? Or do we Tinder because we are desperately searching for attention that the guy we slept with last weekend doesn’t provide? Tinder tells you that you’re pretty, it tells you that you’re worth it, even if your ex-boyfriend doesn’t think so. Tinder provides us with a glimmer of hope to meet the guy of our dreams, although the hope is often masked with our inability to accept that this may be the start of our fairytale.
“I won’t tell anyone we met on Tinder,” reads the bios of so many. However, we wear the “met drunkenly at a bar,” label with pride. We wear the “it took over 6 months of sleepovers and awkward sober encounters to actually make it official,” label with ease. But, we simply won’t tell anyone met on Tinder. That’s not supposed to be a part of our fairytale.
I’m not sure why I refused to acknowledge Brendan and I’s Tinder encounter. Perhaps I was waiting for him to make the first move. Or perhaps it was because I don’t want my fairytale to start with, “We met on Tinder.” I want my fairytale to start in a coffee shop, with a cute guy offering to buy my overly-priced cappuccino. I want my fairytale to be cute and quirky enough to be featured in the next rom-com. I want to come around a corner too quickly and accidentally bump into a 6 foot 1 dude who happens to catch my eye at the right moment. I want my fairytale to be everything my hopeless romantic-mind has cracked it up to be.
It leads me back to my original question, why do we Tinder? Why do we spend countless hours swiping back and forth only to experience awkward encounters and unanswered “do you want to grab a drink sometime” questions? Why don’t we want this app to be included in our love stories when we are giving it every reason to? It’s a reality we are desperately avoiding, but maybe it’s time to embrace it.
I want to start my love story in a coffee shop, or on the cobblestone streets of Venice. I want him to rescue me from on-coming traffic when I’m too busy picking an Instagram filter. I don’t want my love story to start with tequila and Tinder, but maybe it’s time to accepting the fact that it probably will.
Welcome to Generation Y, ladies and gents.
We are told that we don’t know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.
It was first semester of my sophomore year. My feet had grown accustomed to beer-soaked frat party floors, my heart had made it through getting (royally) screwed over by a guy, and I was growing to understand what I really wanted for myself in college. I was ready to start a new chapter that was Sophomore Year.
Henry* was undoubtedly charming. He was a few inches taller than I was, with long eyelashes and a face full of scruff. He was as humble and kind as they come, quirky and awkward at times, but in all the right ways. Henry was the kind of guy who’s presence made you happy for unexplainable reasons. He was friends with the guys that lived across the hall from me, so he was a common visitor in my dorm. He’d make it a point to stop in my room, plop on my bed and ask about my day, something that I thoroughly enjoyed. We had a fun, flirty, and carefree friendship.
He eventually developed a crush on me, and alcohol made sure that wasn’t a secret. He’d talk to my friends about me when I was only a couple of feet away, and I pretended like I didn’t hear. Every time he walked out of his friend’s room he’d glance into my room to see if I noticed him. He called me beautiful and amazing, and I certainly didn’t hate it.
For a while, I played dumb to the idea that he saw me more than just a friend. I willfully went along for the ride because it was fun. I felt wanted and desired. A guy had a crush on me, and it was awfully flattering. But it wasn’t a “I want to fuck you” kind of crush. It was a “I get excited every time you walk into the room” kind of crush. It was innocent and it was genuine. He liked me for me. I was fairly positive I viewed our relationship as strictly friendly, but for some reason I enjoyed the idea taking the time to decide if I was sure.
It was a Friday night and we were all pouring cheap vodka into douchey-looking SHOT GLASSES. Henry didn’t go out all that much, but he certainly pre-gamed like he was going to. He stumbled into my room and through his slurred words and drunken footsteps he managed to ask me on a date. I blushed and was pleasantly surprised, but didn’t expect much since it was simply an intoxicated encounter. I told him to ask me sober, and I was certainly wished he was going to.
I received a text the very next day, “Still up for Pasta e Basta next week?” I stared at my phone intently and couldn’t wipe the smile off of my face. I blurted it out to my friends, failing to mask the excitement from my voice.
“Henry asked me out on a date!!!!”
“Are you really that shocked, Beth? He’s in love with you,” they replied.
I blushed, again.
It was a Wednesday night and I sat in front of the mirror carefully running the iron through my hair, perfecting every curl. I slowly applied the mascara wand to my lashes and attempted a smoky eye a few times, failing miserably. I ran to the bathroom and scrubbed the make up off of my face while my packet of NEUTROGENA make up remover pads were dwindling. I’m not sure how much of my NAKED pallet I wasted that night, but it was an embarrassing amount. I sat in the bathroom staring at my naked face and wondered why I was trying so hard. Henry had seen me post-sweaty gym sesh as well as a Sunday morning completely hungover with make up from the night before streaked down my face. He had even seen me in tears abandoned in a duct tape Bud Light dress on Halloween. He had seen it all, but it didn’t matter to him. Why was I letting it matter to me so much?
I just liked him as a friend…right? Suddenly I wasn’t so sure.
With half of my hair tied back, I let the rest of the loose curls rest below my shoulders. I took the wand to my lashes again, this time only doing single STROKE for each eye and applied just enough sparkly bronzer for it to be noticeable in the right lighting. I decided on a black and white polka-dot blouse paired with dark jeans and tall tan leather boots. This was my “I didn’t try too hard,” look–even though that was the biggest lie.
Henry didn’t have a car on campus, and this particular Wednesday just happened to be the day that mine decided to get a flat tire. It also was the day that the weather just happened to brew up a snowstorm (good thing I spent an hour on my hair.) Taking the bus into town didn’t seem right on a first date, so my friend let me take her car. The tires spun against the slippery pavement a few times before actually moving forward as the thick snow CONTINUED to fall.
We eventually made it to the restaurant in one piece, but my hair certainly didn’t (damn you naturally frizzy hair.) The place was relatively small with twinkling white lights illuminating the WINDOWS making it feel warm and homey. We talked about life and future plans over a few laughs and plate of pasta and I was enjoying every second.
We ended the night with a friendly hug, although I was fairly certain he was hoping for a kiss. The date was a success, but it further confirmed my strictly platonic INTEREST in Henry. However, it also confirmed how amazing of a guy he was.
Was I leading Henry on? No. I had never been asked out on a traditional date before, and I wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity that doesn’t come often in college. Henry admired me, but it wasn’t the same type of admiration that I was used to. It was innocent and it was raw. I can’t accurately describe the way that Henry looked at me, but it was far more intriguing and attractive than the way most college-aged guys do. Henry took a leap of faith and had no hidden intentions. He wasn’t expecting to get laid, he wasn’t expecting much of anything. It was simple: he enjoyed my company, and I certainly enjoyed his.
Henry and I have lost contact over the years, but when I look back on my years here at UMass, that night always seems to be so vivid in my memory. It’s INTERESTING how such a seemingly insignificant event can impact you in ways that are more complex than you ever expected.
We are told that we don’t know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory. We are also told that we don’t know the significance of a person until they become a piece of your past.
This story is much more than failed smoky eyes and plates of pasta. It’s about taking a leap of faith. Maybe my feelings didn’t change much towards Henry, but it made me appreciate him so much more. It made me realize that there are guys out there that will enjoy my company without wanting something more. It made me realize that you should give every person a fair shot because hopefully you’ll look back some day and be happy you did. More importantly, it made me realize that college is so much more than beer-soaked frat party floors and shitty ex-boyfriends. It’s about the little things, such as sad attempts at a smoky eye and a simple plate of pasta.
I hope you read this, Henry. It may come as a shock to you that I dedicated an entire blog post to that night, but I hope it brings a smile to your face because it certainly brings one to mine. I hope you find a girl that appreciates your kindness and sees you for the genuine person that you are. Thank you for taking me out that night and setting the bar high for every guy to follow. Thank you for the countless laughs and a friendship that I will always cherish, but most of all thank you for being you.
“She’s crazy,” says the indecisive ex-boyfriend who was sexting her the night before.
“Dude, she started acting all possessive and texted me non-stop,” remarks the ~*4 EvA*~ lifelong bro who refuses to commit yet introduced her to his family.
“She’s all of a sudden needy. I mean, like, we’re not dating or anything,” mumbled the dude who “doesn’t know what he wants” while he kisses her on the forehead and holds her hand.
Welcome to the 21st century. Where all girls are crazy and all guys are assholes. The way the world works as of late: boys tell each other that girls are insane, while we are simply blaming it on the fact that you suck.
As women, we spend our lives avoiding the label that is “crazy.” We overthink every letter of your text message, attempting to decode what you meant by a simple, “Hey.” We have mastered the art of pretending to not care while possibly caring too much. We blame our overthinking tendencies to mask our insecurities about the whatever relationship we have invested ourselves in with you. The question is, are we really overthinking the dinner dates you take us on, or are you just leading us on to believe in a relationship that will never be?
Don’t call me crazy because I question what we are after months of talking. Don’t call me crazy because I’m upset that you made out with that girl in front of me at the bar when we slept together the night before. I’m not going to apologize for getting attached if I have developed feelings, and I’m not going to apologize for wanting more than what you’re giving. I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy for reading into the pillow talks and exclusive dates that you take me on. I’m not crazy for thinking that you see me more as just another girl because you ask me about my future plans. I may be naive, but I’m not crazy. And I’m certainly not going to waste my time on someone who labels me as such, so, please, just have the balls to tell me how you really feel.
You hate labels? Ok. Well sorry, sometimes, I need one. I need one because it gives me a peace of mind. It makes me feel like the words you spoke to me the other night were genuine and not an attempt to get laid. A label doesn’t mean I need your name plastered on my Facebook wall. I’m not going to constantly Instagram pictures of you and label you as my #MCM every week. You don’t want to call me your “girlfriend,” or your “babe?” Fine. Pet names make me cringe anyways. However, I’m not stick around to be at your convenience when you can’t even find it in yourself to tell me how you feel. I don’t care what our “label” is, just give me something tangible.
There comes a time when we need to reevaluate how we define “overthinking.” I’m tired of blaming my anxieties about you on the simple fact that girls are known to over-evaluate a situation when you have given us every sign to over-evaluate it. The last time I checked, a girl you just want to fuck isn’t worth the good morning texts during the week. If you’re looking for a friend with benefits, that’s cool. Tell us. You don’t want us to get attached? Be honest. Don’t string us along. If you want a strictly platonic relationship yet you wine and dine us, we are going to think that you see us more than someone you want to sleep with. That doesn’t make us clingy, that doesn’t mean that we are reading too much into it. It’s simply the message you are sending us. We aren’t crazy.
Are you shocked that we want something more? Maybe you haven’t noticed the countless Elite Daily articles about what women want. Or maybe you are an award winning actor for pretending that you actually gave a shit. The reactions that you elicit when we confess what we want or are expecting are as if we’re not worthy of something more, ever. We aren’t worthy of developing feelings for you even after months and months of investing our time in you.
I titled this post, “Don’t Call Me Crazy, And I Won’t Call You An Asshole.” So, who’s the asshole? The entire male species? No. I’m not even bitter to the men who only wanted one thing out of me. I understand the science behind the sexual desires of the human species and I certainly understand the science behind getting laid. I’m not bitter to the men who have made me feel used or who have led me on only to let me down. I’m bitter to the men who have expected me to justify my feelings of attachment when they are the ones who led me to become attached. I’m bitter towards the men who have called any girl “crazy” for expecting something more when they treated me like that was the case.
How to avoid being an asshole: don’t sweep me off of my feet only to let me crash when I fall. Be honest with me. If you sense attachment on my end, don’t string me along for the ride if you’re not feeling the same. Don’t call me crazy and I won’t call you an asshole.
Our 20’s is a time for us to be selfish, to take risks. It’s a time to travel the world, move to a different city, see what the world has to offer outside of our comfort zones. It’s a time to find yourself, a time to begin your journey in the reality that we spent our whole lives trying to avoid.
Our 20’s should also be a time where you should be able to date and talk to whoever the hell we want without feeling a sense of judgement from others. It’s a time where we should be able to go grab drinks with the guy we met on Tinder, while simultaneously texting our cute guy back at home, simply because we can. And simply because we don’t give a flying f*ck.
I’m always talking to a guy. I go out and talk to a different person every night and sometimes kiss them too. I have a compiled list of numbers in my phone starting with the guy’s first name and ending with the bar I met them at: Derek Lit, Pete Coogans, Alex Jery Remy’s– the list continues. When I’m bored, I scroll through Tinder, and converse with 4 or 5 guys at time that usually start and end the same way. No matter how many times I have to copy and paste my responses to the “what are you looking to do after school?” question, it doesn’t get old. And to be completely honest, I don’t remember a time in my life where there wasn’t some guy on my radar.
One time I made a promise to myself that I would “give up boys” until Christmas. Ha. It lasted about a week. I found myself Tindering and texting all over again.
For some reason, I wanted to hate myself for it. I wanted to allow myself to believe that “I don’t know how to be alone,” and others tried to convince me too. The stigma behind women always having a guy in their life has painted us as desperate, pathetic, and helpless. We have low self confidence so we look to men to make us feel desired. We don’t love ourselves, so we need men to complete us. We need to learn how to be alone; we need to learn how to be independent and strong.
I think that is a load of bullshit.
I don’t date or talk to multiple men because I need to feel loved. I don’t date men to lift my low self esteem or to fill some emptiness in my heart. I date because it’s fun. I like chatting and getting to know people because it helps me better understand myself. I date because I don’t have a wedding ring on my finger and I date because I can and want to; not because I need to.
I used to be ashamed of the “long list of ex-lovers” I have. Some people roll their eyes when I talk about a new guy in my life because it always seems to change. My romantic life is constantly a whirlwind, but it’s one that I put myself in. Not because I fear “being alone,” but because it keeps my life fresh, fun, and exciting; something that I think your 20’s should be all about.
“You don’t know how to be alone.” You’re right. I have no clue how to be alone. That’s because I never allow myself to be alone. I constantly surround myself with people who I care about and who give my life more purpose. I don’t want to be alone, why is that a bad thing?
I like when guys compliment me. I like when I get a “how are you” text message from a guy I’m interested in. I like making out with random guys, and I enjoy the thrill of meeting someone new at the bar. And if you ask me to get drinks sometime, I probably will. I’d rather have a thousand different flings than settle for one person at a time in my life where I simply don’t want to settle. I’m not going to limit myself from talking to somebody to appease the opinions of others. I’m a huge flirt and I won’t be sorry for it.
I don’t define myself based on the guy I’m seeing. I’m not a girl who emotionally invests herself in men constantly. In fact, at this point in my life, I don’t really emotionally invest myself in anyone but myself. I’m strong. I’m independent. I’m happy. And I date a lot of guys. So what?
I’m happily single and I’m happily dating. It’s possible to be both at the same time. And I’m tired of answering to people who disagree. I date and talk to guys because it’s fun. That’s it.
So, what’s my point here? Date, talk to, sleep with, or make out with whoever the hell you want to without feeling like you’re doing something wrong. Because you’re not. Grab drinks with a guy even if he might not be your type. Give out your number on Tinder as many times as you want. So what if you and your ex just broke up? Don’t allow other people to tell you what you’re emotionally ready for and certainly don’t allow other people to tell you that you “don’t know how to be alone.” Defining your choices based on the opinions of others is one of the worst things you can do for yourself, so don’t.
You aren’t weak for always wanting to feel desired. You’re desired for a reason, so just go with it. You’re young and hot. It won’t last, so make the most of it.
“Why didn’t you write me? Why? It wasn’t over for me, I waited for you for seven years. But now it’s too late.”
“I wrote you 365 letters. I wrote you everyday for a year.”
“You wrote me?”
“Yes… it wasn’t over, it still isn’t over”
Sorry, ladies and gents. It is over. And it’s not because your over-bearing parents intercepted his/her messages. It’s just over, but I’ll tell you why.
Boy meets girl. Girl meets boy. Boy and girl exchange numbers and talk. Then, somewhere along the way it just doesn’t work out. You stopped answering their texts. Boy now awkwardly sees girl on campus and boy/girl wonders why the other one never responded.
This post I decided to reach out to my amazing readers for some input about why you weren’t worth the text back. The responses I got were unreal. You guys are awesome. So, if you have ever been ignored, here is the ultimate guide for why this particular boy or girl just didn’t think you were worth their time anymore. However, these people don’t seem to be too sorry about it. I wish I could include all of the responses, but many of them were too similar (not surprising by any means).
For all of you lost souls, including myself, this is why they never answered your text:
I tend to not answer when I have no idea the meaning behind the text–if something can be construed as flirty or serious, how the hell do you respond without looking like an idiot if you’re wrong?
Because he asked for nudes.
Because “hey baby” from a number I don’t even recognize is seriously creepy.
You clearly have a girlfriend (that I CLEARLY stalked on your Facebook the day after we met)
Happy Thanksgiving you filthy animals.
I’m spending my Thanksgiving in Brooklyn with family, so to fight the FOMO about missing out on Thanksgiving Eve festivities with friends, I decided to do a bit of “social experiment,” if that’s what you’d like to call it. I only expected to do it to one or two guys, but then it just spread like wildfire. I couldn’t help myself.
Everyone reading this very familiar with Tinder, the glorified hook up app. So, since I know zero people in this area, I decided to strike up some interesting conversations with complete strangers. Inspired by How To Lose A Guy In One Tinder, I hope I can provide you with some comic relief on this glorious holiday. Apologies to those victimized, but I am certainly #thankful and #blessed for you providing me with entertaining conversations and endless laughs.
What did I learn? I can act as crazy as I’d like to, it doesn’t matter. The thirst is real.
Kindly read the conversations from left to right.
Meet Victim #1. He poses with girls in his Tinder pictures. And, his nose is growing, “like pinokio.”
How kind of you to have a romantic dinner planned for me when I come knocking on your door looking for your non-existent girlfriend like a complete psychopath.
Meet Victim #2. His grammar is immaculate and he’s charming as hell 🙂 Every girl’s dream.
I guess that makes two of us who are constipated with our “faces stuck in one position.” Also, since you’ve slept with 7 and a HALF women, do you consider me half or whole of a woman? Jw lmao lmk thx.
Wait, so does this mean take back the comment about me getting chewed up by the tigers in my Tinder picture (which are actually lions) because you still want to hook up? I’m confused. Lmk, thx.
Meet Victim #3: He’ll tell you that you look like Angelina Jolie and mean it ❤
So, first you said I don’t look Angelina Jolie at all. Maybe just slightly. Well, no, I look similar, but maybe just in person. Actually, no, just in my second picture we look alike. Ok. Good to know.
I’m off to bigger and better things. You gave me all of the confidence I need. All I need to find is my Brad Pitt and a few adorable orphans to adopt. Hollywood, here I come!
Victim #4 is willing to help a stranger in need…as long as he can talk to me on the phone first.
Have you asked your parents if its OK yet? I’m cool, I swear.
This guy’s cool. He has pumpkin and apple pie. And his friend’s parents love to salsa. What’s better than that?
Well, so do you want me to leave the savory pumpkin pie that I made at home? That’s kind of rude. And, what if I don’t know how to salsa? Will I feel left out? Do you think we could split the Uber taxi?
Hey Victim #6 thank you for understanding my butterfly obsession.
I was hoping we could paint our future kitchen red, but beige with oak cabinets sounds good too. We can compromise I suppose.
“I don’t think there’s a need for pills.” The WebMD of Tinder. Thanks for backing me up cutie pie 🙂
And here’s my Angelina Jolie friend again.
Ok bye, friend. I’ll miss you.
If you ‘d like to participate in this Tinder game with me, it’s fun. Email me at email@example.com or message me on Facebook. I’ll feature your sicko conversations in my next post!
Dear My Future “Whatevers,”
Hey there, it’s me, Beth. I don’t know if our relationship will ever extend beyond texting or if you talk to me just to hold onto the hope of having sex with me. We may get married, or our first date might make us want to run for the hills. You might meet my parents, or maybe we’ll make out once at the bar and then awkwardly smile at each other on campus. You might ask for my number but never text me, despite my desperate attempts to talk to you. Maybe we’ll fall in love or maybe we’ll fall back into the title of complete strangers. I’m not sure what you’ll be to me, but I want you to read this anyways.
I bet we aren’t each other’s firsts, and we probably won’t be each other’s lasts. We’ve probably already experienced our first kiss, first love, first heart break, first everything. You’ve probably slept with a handful of women, and I myself have done the same with men. I’ve developed feelings for guys who haven’t felt the same, and maybe you’ve experienced something similar. You won’t be the first guy I’ve cried over, and you certainly won’t be the last. You aren’t my first love, and there has been other guys before you that have altered the way I view a relationship. My emotions aren’t as innocent and raw as they once were. Life has changed me. Life has changed how I am going to look at you.
If you are reading this at the very beginning of our “whatever” relationship, you are just another guy to me. I have no predispositions about you other than what I’ve seen on your Facebook, or the way you treated me the first night we met. If you treated me like a piece of meat, I’m not interested, no matter how many late night texts you send me. If we have been talking for a few weeks and then you ignore me at the bar to talk to some other girl, I’m not wasting my time on you. Maybe I’m jealous, but I’m not heartbroken. You’re just another guy. And like I said before, you probably won’t be my last guy.
You aren’t the first guy to play with my emotions, you aren’t the first guy who I’ve developed feelings for. You may think you are the Seneca Crane or Plutarch Heavensbee in this “whatever” relationship (if you didn’t get that Hunger Games reference right away then GTFO), but I’ve seen it all before. I’m not naive and I’m not going to expect that anything will come of this until something does actually come of it.
Don’t call me crazy because I question what this “whatever” relationship is after months of talking, I’m not expecting a ring on my finger. I don’t care what you label this as. But, I do care how you label me. I can be the girl you are “talking to,” or “hooking up with,” or maybe I’m just another girl on your long list of potential suitors. I’m not some “dumb broad,” or some “random bitch,” and if I am, have the decency to tell me. If that’s what I am to you, then why are you even wasting your time?
Don’t text me every single day of the week and ask me about my family if I’m just some random bitch to you. Don’t take me out to dinner, don’t tell me you like me, don’t hold my hand. Don’t pull me in the trap of falling for you and then freak out when I actually do.
The dating culture of the 21st century has evolved into one giant twisted and f*cked up game, and we all willingly play along. If I like you, I’m going to tell you. But, don’t flatter yourself just yet, I’m not looking to be your girlfriend. I’m not expecting a ring on my finger or flowers at my doorstep. “Like” doesn’t translate to a marriage contract. If so, I’d be screwed. It doesn’t mean I’m head over heels for you or you’re the person I want to have my babies with. So, relax. I didn’t know being honest about my feelings was frowned upon.
You can call me “crazy” for developing feelings, but I could say the same to you for being petrified of a relationship that was never even established in the first place. You aren’t looking for a commitment, but when did I say I was?
You aren’t my first guy. And you might not be last. Don’t waste my time. Don’t string me along for your own entertainment. Don’t assume I’m looking for a committed relationship.
Our “whatever” break up might sting for a little bit, but you won’t break me. Life moves on, and so will I. You are just another guy.
I look forward to whatever we may or may not be. And if this letter freaks you out, then we were never meant to be in the first place.