Stop Putting Yourselves Out There!

By: Matthew Glenside

"I knew. I fucking knew it!" I yelled, so excited about being right, I almost forgot that I should've been throwing my full beer at her dumb fucking face.

"See, this is why I didn't tell you," she retorted in a meek, cautious voice, convinced on some level that she was right. The thin veil of a calm facial expression didn't hide her shame however.

"What did you think was going to happen?"



"I don't know." Her default answer to everything.

Guys, take it from a breakup professional, when your girlfriend consistently fucks up and then throws out the I don't know! excuse, believe her. She really doesn't know. But the lesson to take from hearing that response more than a few times is that she just ain't as mature as you thought she was.

Think about it:
What happens when a little child gets caught drawing on the walls and the angry mother screams, Why would you do that!?
"I don't know."
Why would you flush daddy's keys down the toilet!?
"I don't know."
Why did you bring mommy's special toys from her top drawer to school with you for show-and-tell!?
"I don't know."

They don't know. They really don't. They're little children and they act on impulse and never think about the C-word.

No! Not THAT C-word!

CONSEQUENCES.

You're wondering what this little snapshot of a typical Glenside date night actually was about, and before you start wondering if you're just completely missing the point like you did in Hills Like White Elephants, no you didn't. I haven't gotten there yet...

A week prior, Melody, my ex-girlfriend (an article certainly has to be up-and-coming about that) had returned back to Nashua, NH on a Thursday night for no good reason. Now, for a girl who does absolutely nothing but bitch about having to drive anywhere, for her to leave her place in Boston, sit in traffic, and make the 55+ minute ride back to rat-infested Nashua, there had to be a reason. She told me it was because her roommate had friends over and she was going to meet yet another male friend of hers from way back for a drink (Same guy she told me that she had the opportunity to date in high school but didn't, but then followed it up with "I wish I had dated him then because..." and at that point I stopped listening because what kind of a C-word--not consequences this time--tells their boyfriend this when they're out on a romantic vacation together? Oh, and I forgot about her describing all the ways he was superior in looks, physical health, fronted a band, was an awesome guitarist, etc. Seriously, Melody, fuck you).

I was hanging with Heartman that night, and despite she and I living an hour apart, she was upset with me over not calling her to see what she was doing before she made a surprise trek back home, and felt as if I blew her off. Well, next, she goes to meet Mr. Superior Muscle Music Man and he blows her off, but undeterred, she sat at the bar by herself and drank alone. This is also behavior that if seen, I suggest staying away from before you start dating. Then she made plans with "somebody else," who for some reason had to remain nameless even when asked about, and they too blew her off. Refusing to admit defeat and drive the three-and-a-half minutes back to her mom's house to go bed, she searched her phonebook for some dildo desperate enough to come meet her out at 11 pm on a weeknight.

Before we move on, I just want to point out the ground rules with Melody--If I so much as mentioned an ex-girlfriend, she'd go ballistic. If I said something like, "Yeah, Denise had been there once and warned me to never visit New Jersey," I'd have to suffer two hours hearing all about how she doesn't feel "good enough," and that I "just want to go back and FUCK Denise! Well fucking LEAVE and go be with HER INSTEAD!" That was an actual conversation the day before her 25th birthday. The next day I cooked her a nice dinner, gave her jewelry, and instead of a card, I made a slideshow of pictures of us. Fifteen minutes after dinner was over, she told me about how her pro-athlete-ex-boyfriend had a huge dick and couldn't understand why I was pissed off at her. (Answer: It's called respect! There's just absolutely never any good reason to bring that shit up, especially given the amount of work I had put in to make her feel special on her birthday)

Ok. Just so you're aware.

But as attention-starved, validation-seeking alcoholics go, NOT drinking is simply NOT an option, so Melody called the guy she was fucking before we started dating to come meet her at a dirty bar downtown at 11:30 at night to come drinking. Just the two of them. Again, she couldn't understand why I, just for some unknown reason, was not pleased with her decision. Two days go by before I decided to speak to her and her response was (besides saying I can't believe you don't trust me!), "There are like, five people who told me I should break up with you because of the way you're acting."

One of those five people was a receptionist at her work who cheats on her fiance with a new guy, at least every week. Thanks, Melody. I'm happy you're smart enough not to take advice from her, but you'll throw it in my face anyway, because we all know that means, well, they do have a point.

Skip a week ahead to where this awful tale began when she admitted to me that her old fuck buddy tried to kiss her while they were doing a little weeknight, last call, "just friends" drinking--you know, the way they used to do when they were snogging each other frequently not nine months ago. I went into overdrive, vindicated that my very pissed off reaction to her calling him was very much appropriate. Until I remembered, that's really nothing to be happy about.

Do I believe her story for a second that he leaned in and tried to kiss her and she leaned away? I certainly don't believe she leaned into him and they went a-lip-lockin'-looney, no. But the way she tries to maintain an innocence in the situation uncovers a bigger problem with females and leads me to this point:

STOP PUTTING YOURSELVES OUT THERE SO DAMN MUCH.

[I really don't want to turn this into a missive on the problem of "Victim Blaming," in which the rape victim incurs the blame for the horrible experience she went through but I do need to touch upon it briefly. First of all, any of you taking part in these so-called "Slut Walks" all need to be ran down with Panzer tanks. Marching around in the streets dressed like prostitutes in the name of equality and women's rights... yeah, good luck with that. Of course, nobody should ever have to worry about being raped. It's an appalling, hideous, senseless crime against another person. It's sick to think that we as humans have the capability to sink to such a level. In a perfect world, we shouldn't have to worry about things like that, but over here in reality things are different. Dress provocatively, get wasted, get raped and then have everybody tell you that 100% without a shadow of a doubt it wasn't your fault? I'll buy that when I wear 25 lbs of gold jewelry and staple $100 bills to my clothing and go walking around the hood at night and everybody tells me it wasn't my fault that I got stomped out and robbed. It's not everybody else's job to protect you. Protect yourself first.]

This has always driven me insane--a girl takes two hours to get ready to go out to a bar without her boyfriend, but to meet a group of her friends. How much time do you need to get ready, to look nice, to see your friends?

"Well, we want to feel sexy because it makes us feel good!" a chorus of millions of brain dead women just whined as a collective.

Yep. There are times, not all too often, that I too dress nice and feel better about myself as a result. As a man, wearing a suit indicates power, respect, authority, and a go get 'em! attitude that holds weight amongst fellow men and women. Dress the part, be the part, as the cliche states! Difference being that when men dress the part, they're dressing the part of a successful income-earner, provider, protector, networker, the all-around Alpha Male. What part is it that you're dressing, sweetheart? Because a low cut top, a slutty skirt, and prostitute boots tell me you're playing the part of "Girl Who Gets Fucked While Passed Out After Throwing Up Too Much Vodka." The auditions for that role are brutal I hear.

And listen, stop before you fucking clams even give me the same canned response of We don't do it for guys! We do it to feel good! You're looking sexually provocative to feel good, but it's not for the guys? Oh, so you're telling me it's to impress other women then?

"No!"

Oh, you just need to put yourself in the mood before you can masturbate then?

"What? Again, no!"

Feeling sexy does not exist in a vacuum. There absolutely has to be some kind of participation from a second party!

Hell, we all like the attention because it's validating. It's nice to know we still got it. We're sexually driven creatures who need to attract mates to procreate because that's what our instincts tell us to do. Let's just stop lying about it already with the bullshit excuses.

I'm not championing the burqa for women, nor am I telling my (next) girlfriend that she can only go out in a ratty sweatshirt covered in paint, ripped jeans with stains on them and her gym shoes, but if you're taking longer to go out with your girlfriends than you spend on looking nice for me, that means that the way you look for me is less important than it is for the way you look for strangers.

"We shouldn't have to spend all our time looking good for you because you love of us for who we are!"

Could I get away with that? Could I treat strangers better than you? Could I pay more compliments to people I didn't know than to you? Would it be fine and dandy if I spent more time ogling the breasts of the girl across the bar because it makes me feel good about myself? Why not, right? You already love me for who I am, so why should I continue to remind you why you're more special?

"That's NOT the same thing!"

Of course it's not... to you. But fine, next time you spend an hour-and-a-half getting ready to make me take you to some fancy restaurant then I'm going to wear my jeans, work boots, and Bruins jersey. After all, I should wear what makes ME feel good, you know, for MYSELF!

"Well so what? If I only love YOU and you trust me implicitly, then what does it matter what I wear?"

Because, sugar buns, people don't place advertisements for shit they ain't selling. And even if they won't sell, the advertiser is curious to see what kinds of offers come their way. When Melody was so "hurt" by me saying that I lost a great amount of trust for her when she went out with her ex-whatever-the-fuck-he-was (a 31-year-old bassist. A BASSIST! Nobody gives a shit about bassists in cover bands! Especially when I'm the fucking frontman of my own group!), I couldn't share an ounce of sympathy for her because she dipped her toe into the pool testing the waters. The difference between testing the waters and taking a skinny-dip in that pool is just that one drink too many that causes you to stumble and fall in.

And when you ask why she's soaking wet when she gets back home, I can totally understand why you'd choose to backhand her when she answers, "I don't know."