Dearest Dategirl,

I am a fairly sane, intelligent, not unsuccessful, reasonably attractive young woman with a knack for picking out the most unsuitable prospects. I


Voices in My Head

Dearest Dategirl,

I am a fairly sane, intelligent, not unsuccessful, reasonably attractive young woman with a knack for picking out the most unsuitable prospects. I can walk into a room filled with 100 employed, handsome, well-adjusted, nice men and I inevitably pick number 101—the dirty, drunken loser digging under sofa cushions to scrounge enough change to pay for his 15th drink of the evening. He's cranky because the subplot of his latest screenplay is too deep for the masses to understand—which is why it's languishing in his dresser drawer, unproduced. He's broke because he got fired when his boss felt threatened by his awe-inspiring intelligence. He can't spend the night because he has to get home to his live-in girlfriend whom he's "on the verge of breaking up with." Oh, and can he borrow a fiver for cab fare—the streets are dangerous this time of night.

This latest guy really brought home the fact that I have horrific taste. Not only did he live with another woman, but when he finally split with her (and only after she kicked him out!), he didn't come running to me like he said he would. In fact, he didn't even call. Instead he has spent the last month on a bender of epic proportions. I run into him occasionally and he either drunkenly averts his eyes or ham-handedly flirts with my friends. It's like we never rolled around naked together! It's like I imagined all the nice things he said to me! I feel like a chump and I'm getting pissed. It's all I can do to keep from grabbing the nearest sharp object and jabbing it repeatedly into his watery, bloodshot eyes! I don't want to turn into a bitter, nasty old shrew. I want a nice boyfriend who loves me more than he loves beer or other girls. Is that asking too much?

—Blown Off & Bitter

Dear BOB,

Now, I'm not one of those puritan types who thinks that monogamy is the only way to go, but honey, you feel like a chump because you are a chump. This guy was living with someone else and seeing you on the side. I'm sure he didn't tell Girlfriend about you, which makes him a big fat liar. Why would you believe anything he said? I'm sure you're a very nice girl, but I have doubts about your alleged intelligence. Haven't you ever read Cosmo? All those nice ladies' magazines will tell you the same thing—if he'll cheat with you, he'll cheat on you.

One of the worst things about being some loser's side action is that you—by being new and different—can actually enhance loady boy's primary relationship. Yep, he's laying in bed next to his tired old sea hag of a girlfriend and he starts to think about all the stuff you two have done (and all the things he wants to do but hasn't gotten around to yet because of time constraints). He starts to get all hot and bothered, but you, you charming thing, you're not there. You're across town with only your vibrator and your cat for company. He's got an actual living, breathing human right there next to him. You think he's not going to fuck her? Ha! He's going to close his eyes and do her like she hasn't been done in years. And believe me, she's not going to waste time wondering what's gotten into loverboy, she's just going to reap the benefits of your carnal talents. So while you're at home rummaging through kitchen drawers, desperately searching for batteries, this bitch is having your orgasm!

You say you want a boyfriend who prefers you to liquor and other women, yet you are drawn to alcoholics who are otherwise engaged. In my expert opinion, if this is the type of men you end up with, you should give celibacy a try until you really want a boyfriend. Because, dear, it seems to me that you don't right now. Despite what the Bridget Joneses and Ally McBeals of the world feed us, there is nothing wrong with going solo. You get a lot more accomplished and in your case, you won't have to worry about getting your ass kicked by a jealous girlfriend or mopping up some big oaf's vomit.

[Full disclosure: OK, so I wrote this letter to myself. It's been bothering me for a few months and I needed to work it through. Please note that I'm just as hard on myself as I am on virgins, prudes, and pious Catholics. Plus, I'm guessing that this is really gonna piss off one deceitful motherfucker I know!]

Blown off? Bitter? Write or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western Ave Ste 300, Seattle, WA 98104.

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