Yes, I’m writing about men again. Well, particularly, a man. I’m not as hateful as it may sound, I pinky promise. I’m just a bit pissy at the moment, and instead of eating 20 Twinkies, I thought I would just write it out so that we could all just enjoy his douchey-ness together. Like a party!
It must be nice waking up as you. With a handful (though you would probably say “a bazillion”) of people that kiss your ass all day long, why wouldn’t it be? I think you like to pride yourself on being a voice, scratch that, the voice of the people … and with brown-nosing twits all around, I can see how that is possible. Naive girls throwing themselves your way, men straining to stand at your height. It’s got to be a pretty jolly home you’ve built.
I admit it, I was one of the ass-kissers. I didn’t think you were anything particularly special in the beginning, mostly just an arrogant hypocrite that liked to recite overused words and call them unique, but I thought you had something to offer. After awhile, I actually thought you had a spark of genius. I could see it! I could see what all of the fuss was about! You made such pretty promises to me. Vague, deathly so, but pretty. I could tell right away that you were a master of manipulation, a pro at hooking your bait. Because you made such sweet offers; ones that you knew I desired most of all, ones that I could not refuse. And because I used to play that same manipulative hand myself, so I know one when I see one. I could tell it right away, but I let you do it to me anyway
It was a ray of fucking sunshine for the first five minutes; playful, friendly, testing each others waters. But then things shifted. I retreated a bit. Not because I didn’t want to dive in, because shit, I did want to … but because, from experience, I knew that kind of excitement only lasts so long. I knew that one of us would lose interest quickly, and that I would never see the “promises” come to light. I expressed my concern. You laid a big pile of guilt trip on me, which works so well on women. I contemplated my choices. And I went for it. Because you told me to. You knew a lot about me; my past, my present, my struggles, my weaknesses. I’m a big girl, I know how to take care of myself … but you used those weaknesses to your advantage like only a sick fuck does. And I let you, because I’m just one of those little people that get excited when someone like you gives them the time of day.
So then, what do you know? Mr Enlightened One gets bored. Or tired. Or maybe just came down with a magical case of clarity. And it’s over, just like that. I have no say in it … but why would I? I never did. You didn’t care. If it was sex you were after, why not just say so from the beginning? I probably would have obliged, considering the debt I felt I owed you at the time. And because you were fun, just the type I like to do the nasty with. So why couldn’t you just have been honest? Why string me along, acting like you were on to something Great?
It boggles my mind. It really does. I knew you weren’t anything special or unique (sorry, I know that the masses and yourself would disagree), I just hoped you would be (I guess you’re special enough that I make a post -that you will never read- dedicated to you though, eh?). I had hoped you would live up to your reputation, to your words. But you fell incredibly short. Not that it matters though, there are enough people with noses up your asshole that you won’t even notice I’m not one of them. Ah, such is life.
And now that I have written you out of my mind, I’ll move right along … just wanted to make sure you knew how much I cherished our time together. I for one know that I am no one special, which means that I can welcome you into the club. Cheers, I’ll see you at work.