Jecka

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2005-03-22 22:52:43 (UTC)

To all my girls

Okay so this is a little long, but so worth reading... I
heart my NICE GIRLS
This is to ALL my GIRLS:
"This is my tribute to the nice girls. To the nice girls
who are overlooked, who become friends and nothing more,
who spend hours fixating upon their looks and their
personalities and their actions because it must be they
that are doing something wrong. This is for the girls who
don't give it up on the first date, who don't want to play
mind games, who provide a comforting hug and a supportive
audience for a story they've heard a thousand times. This
is for the girls who understand that they aren't perfect
and that the guys they're interested in aren't either, for
the girls who flirt and laugh and worry and obsess over
the slightest glance, whisper, touch, because somehow they
are able to keep alive that hope that maybe... maybe this
time he'll have understood. This is homage to the girls
who laugh loud and often, who are comfortable in skirts
and sweats and combat boots, who care more than they
should for guys who don't deserve their attention.
This is for those girls who have been in the trenches, who
have watched other girls time and time again fake up and
make up and fuck up the guys in their lives without saying
a word. This is for the girls who have been there from the
beginning and have heard the trite words of advice,
from "there are plenty of fish in the sea," to "time heals
all wounds." This is to honor those girls who know that
guys are just as scared as they are, who know that they
deserve better, who are seeking to find it. This is for
the girls who have never been in love, but know that it's
an experience that they don't want to miss out on.
For the girls who have sought a night with friends and
been greeted by a night of catcalling, rude comments and
explicit invitations that they'd rather not have
experienced. This is for the girls who have spent their
weekends sitting on the sidelines of a beer pong
tournament or a case race, or playing Florence Nightingale
for a vomiting guy friend or a comatose crush, who have
received a drunk phone call just before dawn from someone
who doesn't care enough to invite them over but is still
willing to pass out in their bed. This is for the girls
who have left sad song lyrics in their away messages, who
have tried to make someone understand through a
subliminally appealing profile, who have time and time
again dropped their male friend hint after hint after hint
only to watch him chase after the first blonde girl in a
skirt.
This is for the girls who have been told that they're too
good or too smart or too pretty, who have been given
compliments as a way of breaking off a relationship, who
have ever been told they are only wanted as a friend. This
one's for the girls who you can take home to mom, but
won't because it's easier to sleep with a whore than
foster a relationship; this is for the girls who have been
led on by words and kisses and touches, all of which were
either only true for the moment, or never real to begin
with. This is for the girls who have allowed a guy into
their head and heart and bed, only to discover that he's
just not ready, he's just not over her, he's just not
looking to be tied down; this is for the girls who believe
the excuses because it's easier to believe that it's not
that they don't want you, it's that they don't want
anyone. This is for the girls who have had their hearts
broken and their hopes dashed by someone too cavalier to
have cared in the first place; this is for the nights
spent dissecting every word and syllable and inflection in
his speech, for the nights when you've returned home
alone, for the nights when you've seen from across the
room him leaning a little too close, or standing a little
too near, or talking a little too softly for the girl he's
with to be a random hookup. This is for the girls who have
endured party after party in his presence, finally having
realized that it wasn't that he didn't want a
relationship: it was that he didn't want you.
I honor you for the night his dog died or his grandmother
died or his little brother crashed his car and you held
him, thinking that if you only comforted him just right,
or said the right words, or rubbed his back in the right
way then perhaps he'd realize what it was that he already
had. This is for the night you realized that it would
never happen, and the sunrise you saw the next morning
after failing to sleep. This is for the "I really like
you, so let's still be friends" comment after you read
more into a situation than he ever intended; this is for
never realizing that when you choose friends, you seldom
choose those which make you cry yourself to sleep. This is
for the hugs you've received from your female friends, for
the nights they've reassured you that you are beautiful
and intelligent and amazing and loyal and truly worthy of
a great guy; this is for the despair you all felt as you
sat in the aftermath of your tears, knowing that that
night the only companionship you'd have was with a pillow
and your teddy bear.
This is for the girls who have been used and abused, who
have endured what he was giving because at least he was
giving something; this is for the stupidity of the nights
we've believed that something was better than nothing,
though his something was nothing we'd have ever wanted.
This is for the girls who have been satisfied with too
little and who have learned never to expect anything more:
for the girls who don't think that they deserve more,
because they've been conditioned for so long to accept the
scraps thrown to them by guys.
This is what I don't understand. Men sit and question and
whine that girls are only attracted to the mean guys, the
guys who berate them and belittle them and don't
appreciate them and don't want them; who use them for sex
and think of little else than where their next conquest
will be made. Men complain that they never meet nice
girls, girls who are genuinely interested and compelling,
who are intelligent and sweet and smart and beautiful; men
despair that no good women want to share in their lives,
that girls play mind games that girls love to keep them
hanging. Yet, men, I ask you: were you to meet one of
these genuinely interested, thrillingly compelling,
interesting and intelligent and sweet and beautiful and
smart girls, were you to give her your number and wait for
her to call... and if you were to receive a call from her
the next day and she, in her truthful, loyal, intelligent
and straightforward nice girl fashion, were to tell you
that she finds you intriguing and attractive and
interesting and worth her time and perhaps material from
which she could fashion a boyfriend, would you or would
you not immediately call your friends to tell them of
the "stalker chick" you'd met the night prior, who called
you and wore her heart on her sleeve and told the truth?
And would you, or would you not, refuse to make plans with
her, speak with her, see her again, and once again return
to the bar or club or party scene and search once more for
this "nice girl" who you just cannot seem to find? Because
therein lies the truth, guys: we nice girls are
everywhere. But you're not looking for a nice girl. You're
not looking for someone genuinely interested in your
intramural basketball game, or your anatomy midterm grade,
or that argument you keep having with your father; you're
looking for a quick fix, a night when you can pretend to
have a connection with another human being which is just
as disposable as the condom you were using during it.
So don't say you're on the lookout for nice girls, guys,
when you pass us up on every step you take. Sometimes we
go undercover; sometimes we go in disguise: sometimes when
that girl in the low cut shirt or the too tight miniskirt
won't answer your catcalls, sometimes you're looking at a
nice girl in whore's clothing - - we might say we like the
attention, we might blush and giggle and turn back to our
friends, but we're all thinking the same thing: "This
isn't me. Tomorrow morning, I'll be wearing a tee-shirt
and flannel shorts, I'll have slept alone and I'll be
making my hung over best friend breakfast. See through the
disguise. See me." You never do. Why? Because you only see
the exterior, you only see the slutty girl who welcomes
those advances. You don't want the nice girl.. so don't
say you're looking for a relationship: relationships take
time and energy and intent, three things we're willing to
extend - - but in return, we're looking for compassion and
loyalty and trust, three things you never seem willing to
express. Maybe nice guys finish last, but in the race
they're running they're chasing after the whores and the
sluts and the easy-targets... the nice girls are waiting
at the finish line with water and towels and a
congratulatory hug (and yes, if she's a nice girl and she
likes you, the sweatiness probably won't matter), hoping
against hope that maybe you'll realize that they're the
ones that you want at the end of that silly race. So maybe
it won't last forever. Maybe some of those guys in that
race will turn in their running shoes and make their way
to the concession stand where we're waiting; however,
until that happens, we still have each other, that silly
race to watch, and all the chocolate we can eat (because
what's a concession stand at a race without some
chocolate?)"


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