catastrophe

This is a tribute to the nice girls. To the nice girls who are over looked, who become friends and
nothing more, who spend hours fixating upon their looks, their personalities and their actions
because it must be that they are doing something wrong. This is for the girls who don’t give 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 an homage to the girls
who laugh loud and often, who are comfortable in skirts, sweats and combat boots, who care
more than they should for guys that don’t deserve their attention. This is for those girls who
have been in the trenches, who have watched other girl’s time and time again fake up 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 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 only to watch him
chase after the first blonde in a skirt. This is for the girls who have been told they’re too good or
too smart or too pretty, who have been given compliments as a way of breaking off a
relationship, who ever been told they are only wanted as a friend. this one’s for the girls 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 their hearts broken and their hopes dashed by
someone to 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 in 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 hook-up. This is
for the “I really like you, so let’s still be friends” comment after you read more into a situation
then 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, intelligent,
amazing, loyal and truly worthy of a great guy; this is for the despair you all felt as you sat ion
the aftermath of you tears, knowing that, That night the only companionship you’ll have is a
pillow and teddy bear. This 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’ve 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 little else than where their next conquest will be
made. Men complain that they never meet nice girls, girls who are genuinely interesting 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 interesting and intelligent
and sweet and beautiful 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 not immediately call your friends to tell them of the “stalker chick” you met
the night before, 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 of 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 look out for nice girls. Maybe nice guys finish last in the race
they’re running, but 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 won’t matter), hoping against hope that maybe
you’ll realize that they are the ones that you want at the end of the 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?) …sometimes the nice girls get sick of waiting.