Dear Mr. Melissa Blake:
It’s come to my attention that, during the course of our whirlwind, sweeping romance, I may have let you off the hook a little too easily. I probably bit my tongue and let some things slide, didn’t I? Dammit, love has forsaken me, hasn’t it? Gosh, I hope it really hasn’t turned me into a weeping sad sack. And I’m not talking about the pretty kind you like to cuddle and comfort either.
I’m talking about the walk-all-over-me, I’m-your-doormat sort of sap. Because FYI, Sweetpea (I think that’s going to be my name for you; get used to it), there are just some things I refuse to tolerate.
So maybe you should have an emergency suitcase packed like a pregnant woman who’s 3 weeks past her due date. Because like a baby, when I spot one of these dealbreakers, I’m charging head-first forward. Your tush will hit the lawn faster than a football hits the 50-yard line.
Now, lest you think I’m being harsh, rude or just genuinely and excessively mean, I have just four words for you: STOP PLAYING THE VICTIM. I know you have a huge list of dealbreakers of your own; maybe some of you even keep a running tally in a notebook hidden under your mattress next to your stack of vintage Playboys (don’t think I haven’t discovered those, either; I’m a journalist, remember? It’s my job). Frankly, I don’t really care. You’re allowed to have yours and by golly, I’m allowed to have mine.
So grab a notebook and take notes, Sweetpea…
You can’t handle my disability
This, my friends, marks the blatant immaturity of a man. If a man is uncomfortable, repulsed or in any way thinks my disability should resign me to a life indoors, undeserving of the same love and passion other women are free to go after, then you can be sure I’ll leave him in the dust faster than his little rat brain can process. And to those who say that my disability is a valid dealbreaker, that some people just wouldn’t be able to handle it, I ask this question: Where shall we draw the line then? Maybe a woman – or a man – with a birth mark should be lumped into the disabled category too?
You don’t respect my V Club membership
Let me just say this: I made virgity, prudishness and chastity hip and cool long before those Disney kids “supposedly” did. If any guy thinks he can sweet-talk or finagle his way….well, you know…he’s the double Ds: Disrespectful and Dumb. I don’t think I could make it any clearer.
FYI: Virginity is hot. I don’t care what anyone says.
You name your….car
What did you think I meant? I’m sorry, but any any guy who personifies his car (i.e. naming it Susie, and when said car breaks, feels the need to say “Awww, poor Susie isn’t feeling well.” We get it. You love your car. What we don’t get, though, is if you know the difference between a car and an actual, living person with a pulse and a heartbeat.
You are just so darn in love….with yourself
Have I mentioned before how irritating it is to have an entire conversation with someone who, if he had the power, would annoint himself a Greek God? Yup, he thinks that highly of himself. And that’s not very pretty, is it? Of course I want to learn all about you, but at least save a little something for after the appetizers. Or at least let me drown myself in another root beer before you begin another tale about the great moments in your life.
You are one of the 3 Ls
Liar, Loser or Lazy. There’s just too much damage there that even I couldn’t work with that. I am so in tune with people that I can spot a liar a million miles away, so there’s no use trying to pull a fast one of me. You’d probably be too slow for that anyway.
[Photos via We Heart It]