a) I’m not attracted to you. Maybe I am, slightly. You’re dopey and a little awkward and quiet and well-intentioned. I’m going to be honest, it’s the fact that you’re so dopey and awkward and quite frankly, kind of unintelligent. I mean… you didn’t even capitalize the letters in a Facebook message you sent to a friend, and your punctuation was all wrong. You looked like a bumbling idiot next to that Ivy Leaguer on the bus back from that meeting today. Maybe I still like you. Maybe this is another thing I’m trying to figure out, more with myself than with regards to you in particular.

b) I can’t be attracted to anyone because you’re all flawed. That being said, nobody should be attracted to me either, because I’m flawed too. I exist with the burden that there’s something inherently wrong with anyone I’ll ever take interest in, and I’m doing wrong by ever liking you. None of you should invest your interest in me. I’ll go die alone. Believe me, I’ll be happier existing without the burden of existing in a two-way linkage of flaws, and keeping myself as my own problem alone.

c) I’m sorry you like me. I’m sorry you liked me last year, I’m sorry I never realized before we became close friends. I’m happy we grew apart, I’m happy we went our separate ways and weren’t as good of friends as we were last year. I’ve changed, matured, learned to see the true colors in things. You’ve grown more fazed, banking your happiness on the people who aren’t there for you. Stop investing your energy in me. I’m not going to feel that way about you, I never have, and never will. The reason I could become such good friends with you was because I knew, and know even more so now, that it would be absolutely impossible for me to ever be attracted to you, on both a physical and mental level. You’re absolutely horrid, a girl’s worst nightmare for boyfriend material. I’m not stable, even if I’m an expert at projecting such an image, and the last thing I’d need is for you to keep waiting and hoping for yet another thing that will never work in your favor.

d) I still find it sexier if you have an internship with JP Morgan, than if you can pump iron.


Oh god, oh dear god. I’m going to die alone, says the twenty-year old exuding word vomit from behind the safety-wall of plastic keys and pixels and Google Chrome and Cranberries-themed Pandora playlists

I’m going to die alone, she mutters, not surrounded by cats as every self-pitying female laments in her qualms to go with a glass of wine (box of Franzia?), but by ladies who wove back her hair when she fell to rock bottom, by men who gave her quick, friendly pats on both shoulders and voiced their faith in her strength. Words of promise were uttered but never once was promise delivered, she mourns from the bottom of a pit of self-pitying cynicism.

There’s a type, some sort of it quotient that drives women mad in a particular man, woman, significant other. A highly credible internet time-burning article claims that chocolate not only boosts sex drive, but that it in fact mimics the feeling of love itself; bite after bite, this is love.

She’s going to die alone, she mutters once again, her mother spearheading the memorial and waving banners that summon you, you, and you; friends of friends and acquaintances of those friends because the world is weeping in your loss, she’d say, everyone loves you too much. 

A death by too much love, alas love that was never met from both directions. Bite.

In high school English, her teacher used to draw calculated diagrams of romance in Victorian Literature, the way eye contact between two individuals attracted to one another would be a gravitational pull of communication more powerful than the tectonic plates themselves. That’s what constitutes romance, isn’t it? Locked visions, locked thoughts, unison. Novelist Chuck Palahniuk once said something along the lines of that those who love you, and those who you love, never quite align.

She says I’ve seen Victorian eye sex though, as English teachers and giggly nervous tenth graders called it.  Relationships and mutual love manifested in ways other than airy, flavorless Skinny Cow wafers because Hershey’s was sabotaging the slender waistline that he– that purely hypothetical he— could hypothetically love so much. I’ve seen shoulders squeezed and embraced and lips locked and hope explode and I wonder, just wonder, why crazy old Chuck was right about me and nobody else.

And ultimately she laments dying loved, surrounded by instilled faith vaporizing from the upper left ribcage cavities of those who loved her, and the lovers of her lovers, and even their lovers too, and their hope and faith in her could rise to the heavens but it would remain meretricious, flimsy verbose if in her passing, she had never understood how the Victorians did it anyways.

Oh god, oh dear god. I’m going to

We could address how I’m in a coffee shop blogging feelings from a sticker-ridden computer

Like, holy shit. 

I like that you’re so laid back. We’ll talk and pretend nothing happened and it’ll be so easy. I don’t think anyone knows that we… what are we anyways? Inebriated crushes? I’m afraid to kiss you because.. well to be honest, I’m not sure why. Last night we were in someone else’s room and we were laying on their bed and you started telling me about other girls. About how you’d talked to them about the weather and dumb things like that. 

Like clouds and shit? 

Yeah, the fucking weather, man. 

You really don’t get it when girls like you? 


You’re really dumb

Tell me the truth


Tell me the truth