Dear Guy Who Will Probably Never Call Me,
I’m not surprised, only disappointed. You showed such potential, such promise of not being that guy. You know what guy I mean: the typical 18-35 American male. The fan of Freddy Got Fingered. The drive-by-yeller of obscenities at women. The yeast-draped, mustard-caked assgoblin. The jerk.
You’re sweet. You’re funny. You’re intelligent and nice to your mother. Most of all, you’re a giant nerd. Giant nerds are supposed to call the girl. They’re supposed to remember that all girls are someone’s daughter, and then think about how they wouldn’t want their own daughter to be treated this way, and then start imagining that I am their daughter and then things gets weird. But giant nerds are supposed to be weird! So, when you think about it, you’re not only letting me and all of the other daughters of the world down by not calling, you’re also letting yourself down by not adhering to the pillars of giant nerdom.
I am 100% certain that you did not plan the way our night would end. I didn’t plan it either. But seeing as how it did happen, you should realize that it’s kind of a big deal. We both know I don’t do this very often. What you don’t know is that, in fact, I’ve never done this before, which explains why you gave me neither a card nor an engraved plaque to commemorate this brand-new sleep-with-the-guy-right-away experience, like my mother did when I got my first period (for which I also received flowers, but let’s not over-do it). While a plaque is certainly justified, please know that I am a modern, easy-going gal! This is the 21st century after all, and I a firm espouser of the feminist perspective, which means I wear blue jeans and no longer require the presence of an adult male relative when making my weekly market sojourns for muslin and grouse. A call would have sufficed.
What’s that you say? You don’t have my number? That’s true, however you do have my email address and as far as I know, asking for someone’s phone number through email is not a criminal offense.
No need to make an excuse as to why you made no effort to contact me, for I have already come up with several for you:
1. You’re nervous about making contact because you’re afraid of being rejected. This often happens after you’ve already had sex with a girl.
2. You’re not sure that I want you to call me. You think that maybe I’m just not that interested, which leads you back to Excuse #1, with all the nervousness and self-doubt after already having slept with me.
3. There was an emergency/accident/kidnapping with one of your family members/friends/self and you had to drive for the past three days and nights to get home/rush your aunt to the hospital/get back to the US from the drug cartel’s Nuevo Laredo stronghold from which you escaped using cunning and sexual favors. Earlier this year, I had a kidney stone and I had to get myself all the way from Brooklyn to Manhattan to go to the hospital, so I know about emergencies. However, while there is no cell service on the 4 train, you most likely had it for your entire drive, even while under heavy fire from the pursuing traffickers-turned-bounty hunters.
4. You were simply too busy. Although, you weren’t too busy to take your pants off the other night, even though I know you had had standing plans. Other standing plans.
5. You are a dick.
It seems that I have two options: (1) hate myself or (2) hate you. But friend, I choose neither. I refuse to hate myself because I’ve read feminist theory, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that your inaction—just like my own thigh fat—cannot invalidate me. And I refuse to hate you, because I find hate to be extremely counterproductive to my progressively positive mindset and terrible for the skin. Also, I’m still hoping you might call. In fact, this open letter posted on a humor website is just in case Excuse #1 is the reason you haven’t called.
I just want you to know: there is nothing to be nervous about.