A letter to some boys

Dear Men boys,

I like most of you.  I do.  A lot.  I know that one of you out there was made just for me.  “A good man.   A true man.  A man to love me for sure”. (Thank you, Bette Midler for those eloquent words)  I joke about you and laugh about the things I think you’re good for and how dumb I think you are but the truth is, I really like you.  You are a necessity in life; as a partner but also as a father, a son, a brother, a friend, a coworker, and sometimes a backbone.  I also joke about women.  I’m famous for my “vagina=crazy” quote, and I’m quick to discuss how women are bitches.  In short, I fuck with all the sexes equally.  This letter is not to man-bash.

I’m writing to tell you something that has been bothering me for months.  I tried to ignore it.  I really did.  I tried not to judge you.  It thought that it really wasn’t my place.  The longer it went on, the more disgusted I became.  You all didn’t commit the heinous infraction I’m about to describe.  Many of you did. 

The bile is rising to my throat right now thinking about it.  I’m making “that” face as I type.  That face I make when I smell spoiled milk, rotting potatoes, or dog shit that has been frozen and thawed.  That face. 

Let me try and explain this to you without breaking down, crying my head off or calling each of you a sickening fuck.  You deserve all of the above but name calling solves nothing and I’m ugly when I cry.  In short, my long-term relationship ended.  As soon as one day after the relationship ended, I began receiving private messages on social media from you.  Not all of you. Just a few.  As the months went by, more of you joined the cluster of fools. Today it’s almost every man boy on my friends list.  Some of you are casual and cool, some flirty and cute, and some of you are downright fucked in the head with messages blatantly asking for sex and/or sexual favors.  All of you hiding and messaging in private.

It doesn’t seem like such a big deal, does it?  I’m single, why not?  Why shouldn't I enjoy messages from men boys who are supposed to be my friends?  Should be a great fit, no? A small portion of the “why not” is because each one of you are married or in what appears to be serious relationships. This makes you not only an asshole but the lowliest scum that exists.  The reason your partners don’t give it up to you or act the way you’d like them to is because they know.  Women aren't stupid.  But keep looking for other women to fill that hole that you caused.  I bet it’s working fantastically for you.  That’s not why I’m writing this. I’m not judging.  I don’t know your situation. 

You could have an open marriage, could be separated, or it could be that you are a fucktarded simpleton who needs to be wanted by more than one woman (the last option being the most possible choice).  I don’t care.  That’s your issue.  The real reason I’m writing this here story of woe is to ponder aloud, this:

Why did you message me? Was I so hot? Did you like me?  Did you want me? That’s what you wanted me to think.  You wanted me to think that you thought I was so freaking awesome that I would get my head all big and I’d fall for your insipid bullshit.  “He thinks I’m cute” so I’ll give him a piece of ass.   Those thoughts lasted a hot minute.  “Is it because I’m fat?” was my next thought. Big girls are easy.  Ain’t that right?  You thought my self-image was shot because I was dumped and overweight?  Did you figure that my self-esteem was so low you could get a quick roll with me and maybe even boost my self-esteem in one shot?  You’d have been doing me a favor. Right?  

Next this - “What kind of sleazy bag of shit do these men boys think I am”?  I couldn’t figure it out then and I still can’t.

I was either married or in a (what I thought was monogamous) relationship the entire time I knew the lot of your sorry asses. What in the hell brought you to my inbox? Was it because I shared memes that were risqué or posted stuff that had the words “fuck” (OMG) or “cunt” (I must be a whore), or because some of the posts were of a sexual nature? I enjoy smut talk and goofy assed memes about sex. Must mean I like to fuck married men. Makes complete sense. If this is your mentality, it’s no wonder you’re looking for some strange; your partners hate you because you’re idiots. Ridiculous. You all are ridiculous. I blog. I discuss sex all the time. I also discuss poop, farts, shopping, my kid, and a myriad of subjects. Do these posts define me? No. They don’t. They are sarcastic and exaggerated posts for entertainment purposes. Period. If any of you actually had taken the time in the 10+ years that I knew most of you, you’d know this. You didn’t. You suck. You suck as human beings and you suck at being men.

Not one of you asked me out. Like on a date. It was all about sex or what you could get from me. I wasn’t even good enough for an affair. Just some whore you could hit once and hide away from your seemingly normal lives.

I began to link numerous blog posts from my page to my personal feed about cheaters, what I wanted from a man, and anything I could find that might explain to you that I was not going to be your fuck-buddy. Not then, not now, not ever. This was the passive-aggressive approach but I didn’t have the time or energy to write each of you individually (yes, there were that many of you). Not to mention, it
was publicity for my blog. Can’t blame a chick for marketing. I also figured that if you were messaging me, you were probably harassing the shit out of other women on your friends list. My giant head isn’t so overgrown that I believed I was some “special” whore. The purpose of this letter is not to “out you” or get you into trouble. It is to try and explain how your behavior made me feel. Like shit. That’s how I felt. That’s how I feel. Like a useless waste of a human being. You thought I was weak and would cave and perform sexual favors because you showed me some attention. You thought wrong. I felt disrespected. I felt embarrassed. I felt ashamed. I felt sad. I felt confused. I still feel all those things. Add mad to those things and that's what I feel now. Mad that I allowed a bunch of losers, posing as men, to make me feel that way. Never once did I feel lucky or excited because I special enough to receive your messages. I wasn't impressed. I laughed about it with my friends. I joked that you were sick, desperate losers. All the while, I felt I was being sexually assaulted without any physical contact.

I continued conversations with some of you because I couldn’t even believe it was happening. I had to keep responding because I couldn’t fathom that it was real. I’m a writer at heart so I also knew that one day I’d use your sad, tired pick-up lines disguised as messages, in a writing. I didn’t think that the day would come so soon but I needed to get this out there. For me, and for all of the other women that you deem your personal booty message whores.

In closing, if any of you half-wit fucks are actually able to read this – FUCK YOU. Fuck you for making me feel like a piece of shit. Fuck you for all the other women you made feel like shit. Fuck you for not having enough respect for your wife or significant other to be a MAN. And just fuck you.

Sincerely,

A stand-up bitch who isn’t taking your bullshit

PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently dumped, recently unemployed, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence.  She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life.  She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland.  She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words.  Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book.  Be afraid.