Everyone knows I love men.
I love to look at them, think about them and daydream about them.
Especially when they're tall
and clever and witty and intelligent
and maybe have a sleeve of tattoos or some piercings and mmmmmm.
Hold on, where was I going with this?
Oh yes, I love men. But in theory, not in practice.
They are full of themselves.
Seriously, no one likes to talk about themselves as much as a man does:
"Hello, I am so ____ and ____ and ____. Did I mention how ____ I am? Let me tell you more about how amazing I am at ____."
They don't know what they want
(even though they pretend to).
Then they wander around the globe
or their room
reading Nietzsche and Kerouac and Sartre
and somehow end up back in the same place,
though at first perhaps claiming to be newly Buddhist
or some combination of the above.
They show you glimpses of their humanity;
but then quickly help you forget they are capable of being vulnerable
and go back to being selfish, self-absorbed and apathetic.
They ignore you,
and then they write stories and poetry and blogs and lyrics about finding love.
And then, after four weeks--
or three months,
or two years--
of fucking around, they call you
or text you
or email you
or show up uninvited
and don't understand why you seem upset.
Just because you say you are something doesn't make it so.
Don't ask me out 100 times if I've said no twice.
Don't bother texting me after you've blown me off twice.
Goals. Have some.
I'm staring at you because you're my boyfriend and I think you're cute, you asshat.
You're less self-aware than you think
and more transparent than you think.
And I will love you anyway.