The TOO nice guy/girl in the break up

My friend, Chris, just got dumped by his girlfriend. Now to me that makes no sense at all. Chris is an awesome guy: he's got brown hair that just begs your hand to run through it, violet blue eyes, a shy smile and a rock hard body. Then he still has a great sense of vulgar humor at times and a gentlemen-like touch when he speaks to you. See: perfect!

Needless to say: my buddy is pretty distraught. That got me thinking about the girlfriend. Why did she dump him like a child at an orphanage: without any reason or at least a goodbye kiss? And then it hit me like a ray of light hits a hangover the next morning: Chris was "too nice."

Everyone's had that type of relationship: the guy is so considerate it makes your toenails want to fall off at some stage; he is so thoughtful it makes you feel guilty when looking at the hunk in the seat next to yours at the movies; he is so giving it makes you feel like a thief accepting all the gifts and the free dinners and drinks. He is just too nice.

I was like that once: the "too nice" girl. It happened in my first year at varsity. We met while I was busy doing telephone duty with my roommate one night (I was absolutely TERRIFIED of telephone duty and my roommate assured me eleven to twelve on a Wednesday is the best time to do the dreaded duty cause it's little Saturday and everyone's usually out and about doing what students do best: drink and fornicate). It's always been easy to flirt over the phone and we hit it off, arranging a date for that Friday. The date went alright and we were exclusive since then. It was during exams though and we didn't see each other all that much cause he was studying engineering and it's usually a bitch in the last semester. To make up for lost time I invited him home for the holidays and he gladly accepted (when I dropped him off at his house I realized why!). We had a lot of casual fun, always on the borderline of being more intimate, but I didn't want to hand it to him on a plate: he was just a first year, after all.

So Valentine's Day was the Big Day, or it was suppose to be. We were seniors now so he arranged some first years to serenade me from the balcony and one of them came up and gave me a bunch of roses and he was stupendiously delicious for a first year, I remember thinking. The boyfriend was nowhere in sight. I thought he'd like to make an appearance and waited. And waited. And waited until the bastard rocked up drunk out of his mind from the Valentine's dance punch that he took a "few" sips of with his mates before coming over. I didn't feel like unlocking my chastity belt after I tasted some vomit in his mouth and he passed out soon after that. Things then went downhill faster than a kid on a bicycle with no brakes.

He was always "busy", but I could never figure out with what. I wrote him stupid, soppy poems, cooked him food cause he always complained he was so "tired" after class, did his washing (and I didn't even do my own before that!), cleaned his fucking pigsty. I was the "too nice" girl.

Then, after a month of slavery and serving, I phoned him to find out what time he'd be picking me up to go to the movies. He didn't answer his phone. So I called his dorm and they kept saying he's not available. After talking to my friend who was a Philosophy major, I realized it was time to confront. I walked to his dorm, high heels and all and asked the first year on telephone duty to call him. His dorm had intercoms in the rooms to notify them of a telephone call (one telephone on each passage) or a guest at the front door. The first year was clearly confused and just said there's a nice lady for him, not telling if the lady was on the phone or at the front desk. So the boyfriend told the first year to tell "the nice lady" he was not there. I smiled at the first year, made a gesture to come around the front desk in which he nodded with a terrified expression in his face and stepped back. As calmly as I could I turned on the intercom to the whole dorm while giving the boyfriend a piece of my mind, telling him and all whom wanted to hear how he couldn't even get it up when the occasion presented itself and that if he had time in his "busy" schedule, he would come down before I told everyone about his pubic hair which he plucks with tweezers.

He was there in eleven seconds and I just stood there, exhausted of being so damn nice, and gave him a slap in the face before I took of my heels, went to my friend's dorm next door to his and spent the night on top of him forgetting all about the "nice" girl I was.

Since then my relationships have only lasted two, three weeks max. I guess it's just enough time to not get attached or bored before you move on to the next best thing. Needless to say: being nice died at that front desk and I've never looked back since.

I just wish I could do something to make Chris feel better. It's the first time in a long time that I wish I was the "nice girl"; maybe he would look at me differently.

The Declaration of Non-Interest! (talk about super high standards, people!)

My friend sent me this via email this morning and apparently it's called "The Declaration of Non-Interest":

"It doesn't interest me what you do for a living;
I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are;
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love of your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon;
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine of your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with JOY, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, realistic or to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true.
I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself, if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.

I want to know if you can be faithul and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it's not pretty everyday and if you can source your life on the edge of the lake and shout the silver of the moon.

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after a night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn't interest me whom you know or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments."

She ended the email with: "Don't ever settle for second best, because you are a worthy woman."

Wow! And I thought I had high standards! Right?

Seriously, though: what man can live up to these type of expectations? He needs to be a saint, but still be an eligible bachelor (unlikely combination). Am I right or am I right?

Please let me know if there are men like this out there or if this is just some woman trying to create yet another Prince Charming to whom all other men look pale in comparison!!!!!!

Online chatting: always telling the truth about yourself or not?!

(another one from http://www.postsecret.com/; go check out this amazing website)

So I'm feeling much better (thank you for asking!), but haven't been out and about mingling and cocktailing as it's fragile times money-wise and I'm just not feeling ready to give up my self-quarantined state. Therefore I've been exploring the art of online chatting and discovered some new material to add to my theory of "The Man Test" ;-)

Online chatting can be a crazy addictive thing for some people, I discovered. It's like creating a whole new identity of someone you want to be. I met this guy while playing poker that just started chatting me up. I suspect it's because of the picture I posted, in fact, I'm a 100 000% sure it was because of my endearing, naughty little smirk on the photo (remember: men see better than they think!). He wasn't anything near Hollywood-hunk material, but I was bored and curious to see where it would go. And boy oh boy, did HE go!

Let's call him Busy B for the sake of fictional truth :)

This chap didn't hold back: 30, from London, seeking serious relationship (as in I-want-to-have-your-babies), been in prison for a few years, but happily rehabilitated, very willing and very able on all fields according to his vital stats. In some ways I felt flattered, I mean, everyone has a Michael Scofield-fantasy, right?!

Soon before long his questions started bordering on third base-material. I was thinking: slow down, sailor! but couldn't help entertaining the thought of where Busy B thought this actually might go?! I know people meet over the Internet and make a connection (no pun intended), but surely not after the first couple of pickup lines? Pickup lines such as: "I find you so intriguing and mysterious" (LOL!), "Your eyes are as deep as the ocean", oh and my favourite: "If I received a nickel for everytime I saw someone as beautiful as you, I'd have five cents." In what bar did he hear that one?!

So after I get over being mysterious and intriguing and all (by not giving him my number!), it finally came to me: I was just the Typing test!!!

Now those of you that didn't have typing at school, preparing for a typing test is very, very easy: you just use all the practical knowledge you gained during the term. You hardly even look at the material the day before the test because you know you've done this a million times before and allthough there's always room for error, you trust yourself enough to go through the motions instinctively and even pass with distinction! The practical knowledge you require in typing is always very handy in the technological age we live in these days ... Am I right or am I right?!

Needless to say: I became a busy bee myself and been too busy to get back to the empty little promises Busy B so readily made :)

Until the next test!

Love "sick": are woman just a test a man needs to pass?

(an image from http://www.postsecret.com/ that I just cannot forget)

I've been feeling a bit under the weather these past couple of days and have been confined to the couch, stuffing myself with lozenges and drowning my sorrows in orange juice. I finally had the time for that movie marathon that I've always promised myself, but never could get around to lately. Consequently, most of the movies were, yeah, you guessed it: romantic comedies

Soppy-predictable-yet-addictive love stories where boy meets girl, have some kind of physical attraction where love is confused with a little bit of lust, overcome an obstacle and fall into each others eager arms. VERY romantic. But that got me thinking: what happens afterwards? What happens when the hickeys fade and the butterflies stop flying? And why does that happen? Especially the whole why-part. And between my millions of tissues and orange peels, it came to me. I will keep it simple ;-)

A woman is like a test a man has to study for. Just imagine that chemistry or history test you had to prepare for at school. Some men try cramming as much information in the shortest period of time as they possibly can and that will be called the "One Night Stand". Then there are other men that prepare for the test weeks in advance. They study and study and although there are still a few things they are unsure of, they have most bases covered, feeling confident about writing that test. That is called "The 2-Week Wooing Process" where men are interested in you and what you have to say about your best girlfriend Lucy that just got a new apartment, they open the door for you, gently slide they're hands in that crook of your back to steer you forward and gaze deeply into your eyes telling you they are the beautiful shade of blue like the ocean after a storm. Something along those lines.

But when the test is finished: they forget all about what they studied! They sometimes remember some of the basic facts that can help them get by (barely!), but forgot all about the information that the long questions consist of and if they had to write the test again, they'll score below average and some might even fail miserably. Alas, these men don't dwell on they're failures for long! It's not in a man's nature; always keep moving forward, remember!

Maybe the test should be prolonged to a series of 4 - 400 papers. Maybe these guys should get tutors? Or maybe they're just not that good with tests to begin with ;-)

Am I right or am I right?!