I was at my mom’s last weekend when I found a shoebox filled with random crap from boyfriends past. As I was rummaging through it, I suddenly realized something very disturbing about myself—I’m a bitch.
This news may not come as a surprise to some of you—like when Clay Aiken announced he was gay you’re just kinda like: duh.
But for me it was quite shocking. (I’m talking about the news that I’m a bitch not that Clay Aiken is gay. You had to be headless not to know that.)
Honestly, I blame my grandma. As a kid, I spent a lot of time second-hand smoking Vantage cigarettes and listening to her stress the importance of “playing hard to get.” What she didn’t realize is that when you’re a 14 year-old girl with a unibrow and braces this advice isn’t really necessary.
In any event, I carried it with me throughout my life (the part about playing hard to get, not the excess facial hair) and while it definitely kept me off the pole, it also kinda confused me and turned me into a bitch around guys. So I think it’s only fair that I apologize to them. I’m sure they have no idea who I am anymore, but since I could really use a good karma cleanse here goes nothing…
Dear Fifth-Grade Crush,
When you asked me if I liked you or Kirk Cameron more, I’m sorry I chose Kirk. Truth is I really did like him more than you. So really I was just being honest. And isn’t that how the best relationships are built? If you wanted to get somewhere with me you should have asked me if I liked you or that creepy kid who always smelled liked farts because I can honestly say that I definitely liked you more than him—even now.
Dear Vodka Vick,
First of all, I hope your name really isn’t Vodka Vick. If it is, I’m sorry. Actually no I’m not. That’s pretty awesome. I’m also sorry that I don’t remember you. I’m assuming that since I wrote your name and number on this chewed up dirty napkin that we either met before everyone had cell phones or during some terrible hostage situation in which our captures roofied us, tied our hands behind our backs and made us write in eyeliner. That would explain my handwriting and why I don’t remember you at all. Either way, I’m sorry I didn’t call. Seriously, I really am. I love vodka.
I’m sorry I didn’t appreciate the flowers that came with that nice card you sent. While the gesture was very nice I’m highly allergic to pollen. You probably would’ve gotten a lot further if you bought me a pizza or cheese fries. Or both! In fact, if you’re still interested maybe we can give it another go? No wait. I’m being a bitch again. I’m married with a baby so I’m just trying to get free cheese fries. I’m sorry. Again.
Dear Guy I Made Out With For Milk,
Ok, I admit it. I knew you kinda liked me and I used you because I needed milk to make my Mac & Cheese and you were the only guy in the dorm who had it. Can you really blame me though? Have you ever made Mac & Cheese with just hot water? It’s disgusting. If you remember correctly, I did share it with you. Or did I? That doesn’t sound like me. Anyway, I hope you understand my dilemma and I’m sorry.
Dear Donald Duck,
First, I’m really sorry for calling you that. It was actually my roommate who pointed out that you combed your hair like Donald Duck and it just kinda stuck. I’m also really sorry I was never home when you rang the doorbell. Truth is, I was home but I hit the floor every time I saw you coming because I was too much of a coward to tell you I hated your hair. In fact, I attribute my ability to military crawl like a Navy Seal to you. So that’s nice. No?
Dear Guy Who Broke Up With Me,
Good for you.
Dear Kayak Guy,
While I think it’s really sweet that “the only two things in your life that matter are me and your kayak,” I still think it’s kinda sad. If we went out more than once you would know that I hate kayaking. Actually, I’ve never tried it but it seems like something I would hate—I have terrible upper arm strength. So in the end you probably would have had to choose between me and your kayak, and that would have been awful for you. So, you’re welcome.
Dear Cop Who Couldn’t Find The Spider In My Car,
I’m sorry I almost ran over your foot. But when a girl is hysterically crying in the middle of the Garden State Parkway because there’s a Jurassic, man-eating spider in her car you should really kill the spider before you ask her out. And you should definitely not lie about killing it. Maybe if you produced a corpse, as I demanded, I might have said yes to your advances. Or at least showed you my boobs as I promised. Instead, I had to sell my car because the spider you couldn’t find was obviously plotting to make a nest in my hair while I was driving. So actually I’m not sorry. In fact, you owe me a new car.
Dear Guy I Broke Up With Over IM,
I know everyone says it’s mean and I’m sorry but honestly I can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to be broken up with over IM! It’s so efficient. Not only did I save you gas money, time and a trip to a shitty diner to get broken up with but I also spared you the humiliation of being seen crying at red lights as you belt out Air Supply songs on your way home—only to get there to find your best friend waiting to tell you how her boyfriend proposed to her the night before.
Anyway, you’re welcome.
To My Loving Husband Tom,
Holy crap! This dude I used to know wants to buy me a pizza and cheese fries! I told him that I’m happily married but I don’t think he cares. I wouldn’t want you to feel threatened so you should definitely beat him to it.
P.S. Ask for extra cheese on the fries. Don’t let them skimp out again. Love you!