An Open Letter To The Girl Who Believed In The Perfect Guy

So I am the guy that hurt you and broke your heart.  Now, cry it all out and get over it, because the world is still spin­ning and you are still breath­ing. Things were said – mostly a lot of cre­ative cuss words – and none that we can take back, so stop wish­ing you could. This isn’t a Dis­ney movie with a genie wait­ing to grant your wishes.

Truth of the mat­ter is I don’t need you nor did I care about being your per­fect guy.

In fact, I’ve never needed you; I wanted you and then didn’t want you. You piqued my curios­ity and refo­cused my sex­ual desire when I first met you. We talked for hours at that house party on the rooftop, just you and me. Time stood still in that moment and for­ever on that rooftop with you didn’t seem long enough.

And then we had sex, which was great and it seemed like a nat­ural pro­gres­sion given how that night went between us.

I’m not sure if it was the sex or the view from the rooftop – there is no good view from a rooftop in Kansas, so I’m going with the sex – but a week later, after my ini­tial oppo­si­tion, we were dating.

As the say­ing goes, “too much of a good thing is bad for you.” DAMN RIGHT IT IS. The sex was con­sis­tently great; you being the DD most week­ends was even bet­ter; and you help­ing me cook and clean were, sur­pris­ingly, an awe­some advan­tage. But this rou­tine, though seem­ingly great, even­tu­ally became an annoy­ing bur­den. It became an expec­ta­tion with you and no longer fun. I felt like I was liv­ing at home all over again with the con­stant super­vi­sion, pre­ferred cur­few, mother-esque ques­tions and manda­tory calls/texts that I had to make to “check in” with you.

Yeah, you served a pur­pose and it worked for a while. But this is col­lege, not a mar­riage. I wasn’t try­ing to be Mr. Right for you. I was hav­ing fun in the moment and once enjoyed your com­pany and liked the con­tin­u­ous naked ren­dezvous. Sue me for hang­ing on to that, but what did you hon­estly think was going to hap­pen? Mar­riage? That’s the prob­lem, girls con­stantly com­pli­cate a sim­ple thing.

Don’t blame your­self entirely. I mean if I ate my favorite cream cheese pizza every day I would get sick of that too. But then again my pizza wouldn’t harp on me for never buy­ing it flow­ers or not tak­ing it to din­ner enough. So maybe it is entirely your fault that I grew out of you as quickly as I did. At least now you know what the prob­lem was and that’s bet­ter than no clo­sure, right?

I know it’s tough for women to have a great con­ver­sa­tion along with inti­macy with some­one with­out being in a rela­tion­ship– but it would’ve saved you from heartache if you didn’t com­pli­cate the sim­plic­ity of lust over love.

Every­thing was essen­tially per­fect until you decided that it would be a great idea if we labeled our rela­tion­ship on Face­book by telling the world that we were dat­ing – which makes me won­der how women use to let peo­ple know they were dat­ing before Face­book? Shout­ing? Send­ing a telegram? Actu­ally hav­ing a con­ver­sa­tion with some­one over the phone? I’ll never know.

All I know is when Face­book noti­fied every­one that our rela­tion­ship was “exclu­sive” and “real”,  that’s when the prob­lems pre­sented themselves.

Here’s a super sim­pli­fied list of the prob­lems that ensued shortly thereafter:

Life isn’t a fairy tale and there is no prince charm­ing wait­ing for you. Real­ity check. Life is more about being com­fort­able with your­self and not depend­ing so much on oth­ers. And feel­ing con­tent with the choices you make and learn­ing from them — the good and the bad. Every­one goes through heartache and bad times, but quit blam­ing me for not being what you wanted. You made that deci­sion. This is life and noth­ing is guar­an­teed to you, espe­cially not the right guy.

Sin­cerely yours,

The Ass­hole

Fea­tured image via Flickr.

Writ­ten By Bryenn Bier­wirth via ReadUnwritten.com 

View all articles by Primetime Legend

Imme­di­ately after read­ing this, she found him and kicked him in the balls so hard they went up his stom­ach, through his mouth, and sur­geons are now hav­ing dif­fi­culty fig­ur­ing out how to re-attach them to the right place.