your dream girl don't exist

Like jeff mangum once said, "at the age of five she slit her wrists."

The global male population's endless search for the manic pixie dream girl will never cease.
news flash: stop searching. she ain't alive. she dead.

I think I was supposed to be flattered and honored when you showered me with compliments and told me you you were "really picky." Instead, I was just confused. Since when was this about you choosing me? I raised the pink flag too late.

You were searching for the perfect girl. You thought you might've found her in me. You wanted someone who didn't work in the same industry and thus could take you away from work and indulge with you in your more artistic, cultural pursuits; someone who could wax poetic with you on life and literature, someone who shared your taste in music (it's funny how the way i worded it was "we have the same taste," while the way you worded it was "holy shit, you have good taste"), who could engage with you in textual banter at 10pm on weekdays after work when you were lounging in bed and bored, whom was presentable enough to be paraded around in front of your friends and at work events, someone sexually liberated and carefree who would fulfill all your wildest bedroom fantasies, someone who existed to give you a new perspective on life and infuse your time outside of work with joy and wonder.

When you realized that she was not me-- or, more specifically, that I did not fit your criteria to a T and that there was infinitely more to me than that, you balked. and you don't even have the guts to meet me and say it to my face. Because you can't explain it. The sudden 180 that came out of nowhere. It doesn't make sense. Or at least, you can't explain it without sounding like a huge asshole.
I'm insulted that you became infatuated with someone who bears little resemblance to the person i am. I am infinitely more complex than that. and i deserve somebody who appreciates that and thinks that that's beautiful and worth it, not some social construct, some idealized version of femininity that you hold in high regard. I'm proud of the fact that I like you for who you are, and not for where you work, or what you look like, or what 'type' you are.

And if you don't agree with my assessment of what you're thinking, then tell me to my face. 'cause i'm not afraid to call bullshit when i see it. and i will.

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