I Pick The Wrong Men.

Why are you seeing Doctor G?

Because I pick the wrong men.

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In the mist of paying my phone bill today I suddenly realized something – something that had been a long time coming. Between studying how many text messages I send a month I realized maybe I wasn’t actually unlucky in love maybe it was me- Maybe I just pick the wrong men.

What a thought. I pick the wrong men. I immediately went to lunch to gain some solace to contemplate my newest theory. Maybe I had a man pattern.  And then I wrote out this awesome list… enjoy.

My first boyfriend: The jock/ stereotypical egomaniac. Extent of relationship- “You’re so hot. No you’re so hot.” It was a very deep connection. It ended when he cheated on me… on my birthday (this will become a pattern in itself)

Second boyfriend: The Townie. Financially supported him, since I was 17 this consisted of saving my lunch money and giving it to him for, unannounced to me, drugs (this too will become a pattern in itself) He eventually told me what to wear, where to go and who I could go there with…. He wasn’t insecure or anything. It ended when I realized he was never going to get a job and my parents stopped giving me lunch money.

Third Boyfriend: The Midget. He actually wasn’t too bad except for his weird mom issues. When I found someone else and wanted to break up he didn’t really accept it. He called my house a couple times calling me a whore on my parent’s voicemail. WINNER!!

Fourth Boyfriend: The Mother Lover. No but really pretty sure there was some bizarre relationship with his mom going on. He was bipolar; I’m pretty sure loved me one second then wouldn’t return my calls the next. He cheated on me insistently (and not just with his mother), I found out he had a separate relationship on my birthday.

Fifth Boyfriend: The Sociopath. Everything he said was a lie. He had a double life where drugs, thievery and strippers were included. So lifetime movie Cliche.

Sixth Boyfriend: The Perfect One. Everything this kid ever said and did was perfect right down to how he parted his perfect hair- except when he ended it by just not talking to me anymore and I found out via social media that he is dating some boring girl with a flat chest and an even flatter personality- cause that shit wasn’t perfect.

I took a long look at my list. Not only did I feel ridiculous for actually writing a list of ex boyfriends on my lunch hour, but I felt crazy too – why would I pick these people?

I knew they all had issues but I still allowed a relationship to form anyway. Am I a masochist? Why do I pick people who I know are fucked up? Are non-fucked up guys like too boring or something? One of my coworkers suggested it was maybe a sex thing but without a second thought I shot that shit right down. Only one of them was good at sex – I’ll let you guess on your own… yup his mom musta taught him a thing or two.

Then it hit me. I’m a FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.

Let me just preface this statement with I am the least mothering/domestic/kind/gentle woman you will ever meet. I don’t like to hug, I don’t like babies, I don’t like Hallmark movies, when people cry I either awkwardly laugh or pretend I have to make an urgent phone call over seas to my sick Aunt – yet some how I picked these guys who needed to be taken care of.

Am I in fact selfless and caring? Apparently.

I kept picking guys who needed me to mother them and take care of them. Each relationship ended horribly because in the end not a GOD DAMNED PERSON WAS TAKING CARE OF ME- not even me!! I had gotten so consumed with giving my boyfriends attention, and tax free therapy I had forgotten to take care of myself- bizarre for someone who extensively conditions their hair twice a week!!

Sitting back at my desk feverishly biting my lip I had another epiphany (what a busy Friday, I know)- I was still doing it. I was still picking people who the relationship would be all about them. And right then and there I promised myself (very Scarlet O’Hara on the hill scene) that my next guy is gonna make it all about me.

With all that said though- Damn, Perfect Kid those Raybands, though.

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