I was strolling though the Barnes and Noble yesterday at the mall where that girl got stabbed (true story) and I saw this book called, “Why men love b*tches.”
And I was all, “Crap, why DO men love b*tches?” So I picked it up and read it. The entire first two pages. And it had all this stuff in there about how men like a “mental challenge” and women who “know what they want” and I was all, “Frick. I’m too nice.”
Then, I kind of started freaking out in a needy sort of way.
That’s how I roll.
I’m needy, with a capital NEEDY.
Wait. Please don’t go. Stay. Please. PLEASE!
I usually just blame all my screwed-upness on my childhood, because my childhood was very weird. No. No. Weirder than whatever you’re thinking right now. In fact, take whatever you’re thinking, times it by 40 and add dead mice.
To be fair, the dead mice thing mostly was handled by little brother Steve while I was at college (Go Steve!). But still, there were dozens of dead mice. In my house!
So ya. That’s why I’m screwed up.
I have this problem where I constantly worry that whichever boy I’m with will find a hotter girl because there’s no way I’ll ever be THE hottest girl ever and boys only like girls for looks, right? I worry that I’ll call too much. Or that he’ll randomly leave. And now, I worry that I worry too much.
I don’t understand how to date.
I just want a boy to come along, and not suck and embrace all my neediness with a smile and not worry about the fact that when it comes to men I have the confidence of a cow at a slaughter house (that’s my vegetarian plug of the day). I don’t want to pretend I’m easy going when I’m clearly not. I don’t want to pretend that I don’t like to know plans in advance, when I clearly do. And I don’t want to make you think it’s OK if you’re atheist when it is clearly not.
I don’t want to work on me for you. I want to just be me with you.
And, I’m kind of awesome once you get past the fact that I like to call you six times a day and text 500 times an hour. I’m smart, I have a strong faith and some people call me pretty. Once in a while, I bet I’ll make you laugh, I’ll never judge you for eating Taco Bell, and I’ll talk football with you any day of the week and twice on Sundays.
Oh, and I have a super awesome blog.
And if a guy would just take three seconds to see past my shaking hands, and total lack of confidence, I bet we could totally rock together.
Maybe. Probably. Eventually. Right?