Monday, July 14, 2014

Dear John ...I Mean Adam

Dating is hard.  Those who think it’s a walk in the park, fun, a piece of cake, or the best thing since sliced bread is either starving themselves to fit into that size 4 or else live in a fantasy world.  It’s not that the process is difficult, anything can be figured out and utilized for maximum effect, but the key is working with the right ingredients.  If you haven’t been able to figure out those metaphors by this time, then reading the rest of this post isn’t going to do you any good – it’s going to be full of ‘em.  You might as well stop right now and go read something simple and mindless because that will be more your speed.

I’ve recently read a wonderful “Dear Jane” letter that this arrogant, though slightly good-looking, blogger by the name of Adam Hornyak.  It, at first, made me burst out laughing at the absurdity splattered line after line as he degraded his dates as air-headed bimbos, until I took inventory of some of my fellow female companions currently out on the dating field, and sadly I could see his point.  Mind you, none of it pertained to me, of course, but still… women are not the only bad dates.  I’ve been on several tragic dates over the past few months.  Don’t get me wrong, some have been great, but more bad than good, and even the good obviously wasn’t that good or else I wouldn’t still be single.

Thanks to Hornyak’s example, I’ve been inspired to write my own satirical “Dear John” letter, or perhaps in this case I’ll use, “Dear Adam” and lay out some of my own dating grievances.  This won’t be the only letter, because there’s plenty of things I would like to address in future posts.  I’ll only tackle a few tonight and more over the weeks ahead.  So, stay tuned and come back as the story goes forward.  You must also go check out the letter that sparked this new quest at:  Don’t forget to leave a comment and let Adam know what you thought of his letter.  And please remember… I’m not REALLY writing this to Adam. So far, we’ve never dated.  So please don’t stalk him or harass him for treating me badly.  And if you’re one of his crazy stalker fans, I’m sure he’d like to keep you in his fan base, not mine.  There’s nothing to see here.

Dear John, umm… I mean, Adam,

I’ve decided to write you a letter instead of talking to you face to face, because I find my thoughts become jumbled when I look into those dark, sexy eyes or follow the curves of your beautiful 6’2” frame.  I added the height reference in there so one of my male friends will have some more fodder to use when he gripes and complains about how all women only like tall men. I wish height was the factor that made assholes, that way I’d gladly skip certain measurements. But, getting back on topic -  I’ll go through the day making a list of some very important topics I’d want to talk about with you, but never quite get the chance to discuss them because you purposefully distract me to keep from talking about them.  I know you do it on purpose, but I can’t help it when those beautiful full lips of yours instantly find mine, and my neck, and my shoulders… and, well… I become dizzy, not to mention I find your strong hands running up and down my body quite distracting.  But after I give in to your distraction and I’m lying in your arms ready to share those heavy things on my mind, I hear you snoring. I’m not complaining about the physical chemistry between us, that’s about the only thing I truly enjoy.  What you can do to my body is amazing, you’re like a god, but it’s the rest of the time we’re together where I’ve got some real issues.  We can’t just stay in bed all day.   You’re missing the best parts of me, well, now you’ll be missing all of me.

I’m an extremely intelligent woman.  I have ideas, dreams, philosophies, theories, opinions, and contemplations that could possibly change the world. I’ve got goals to complete. But how would you know?  You don’t listen when I talk.  When I share things with you, important things that mean the world to me, you’re either watching a game, or a lame ass movie on television, or you start playing with my boobs.   I know you’re used to dating mindless mannequins, therefore only practiced at the art of using your little brain, but it’s quite insulting when you assume I’m manufactured in the same way. I’m unique. I’m one of a kind.  There’s not another like me. Yeah, boobs may come in different shapes and sizes, but they’re essentially the same. But the soul that turns inside me is so much more sexier than what’s on my chest.  You haven’t quite figured out that the brain is the largest sex organ in the body and the heart is the most beautiful part of a person.

“Baby, I’m tired of the same old patterns and want something different, something challenging. You make me want to be a better man.”  Bull shit!  You don’t know what the hell you want.  What happened to being attracted to me for my sense of humor, my thirst for adventure, my intelligence, and my collection of hats?  You pretended to be someone you’re not.  You were amazing on that first date.  I had a great time riding down those rapids with you.  I found it endearing as you put your arms around me and stole a kiss. You repeated my profile back to me, showing me you listened.  That night you sent me a dozen texts just to say goodnight. You made me feel special. You made me think you truly cared about me. You lied.

The next few weeks were also great.  “Good morning, Beautiful,” and “I woke up smiling because you were the star of my dreams last night,” filled my inbox with the sunrise.  “I can’t wait ‘til I see you again, and taste your sweet lips and hear your beautiful voice,” and “Good night, Babe, sweet dreams,” dinged my phone every night.  During the day I’d get a sporadic, “Thinkin’ about you, Babe” or “Check out this song, it made me think of you,” or “I can’t concentrate on this meeting because I’m thinking about that awesome quote you sent me.  Man, that was deep.” You don’t know how many smiles you sent me throughout the day.  Now all I get is an occasional late night, “Hey, I’m so horny, wanna fuck?” or “Why are you so co-dependent that you need me to tell you good morning and good night?  That’s not healthy and it’s not fair for you to put that kind of pressure on me,” or “I can’t text you while I’m working, that’s not professional.  I’ll talk to you when I get home.” I guess you never went home, because I never got those texts, or calls, or emails.  Suddenly you’re always tired or you just don’t answer at all.  I got the message – loud and clear.  You see, I’m not a mannequin.  I’m fully aware.

I stopped texting you weeks ago, only responding when you text me first, but you haven’t even noticed. The song links stopped coming, too. I haven’t asked you about those because I wouldn’t want to see the type of songs you’d send me now.  Instead of coming over so I could cook you a gourmet meal, you wanted to go to IHOP instead.  When I wanted to take a day trip on the back of a Harley, something we had discussed for weeks and you said you absolutely wanted to do, you made the excuse that you broke your toe and it wouldn’t be a good idea.  That excuse also went for the hike and paddle boarding we had planned as well. I noticed the last time we had flash sex (because it sure as hell didn’t feel like making love, and it was over in a flash.  I haven’t climaxed in weeks)… you couldn’t last as long because you were out of breath and out of shape.  I take it that broken toe has also kept you out of the gym and off the track.

I’m sorry, but this isn’t working for me.  I need a man that will not only stimulate and please my body, but will blow my mind… and you just don’t have what it takes. Perhaps you should give those plastic mannequins another shot because they seem to be more on your level.  You tell yourself you want a woman that can think for herself and push you beyond your limits to make you a better man, but how can you really want that when you’re so independent, don’t need anyone, already think you’re perfect, and know everything there is to know?

What you don’t know is that you’ve already lost me, you don’t deserve someone like me, and I’m way out of your league.  But, hey… let’s stay friends, because we all know when a man says that he wants to still be your friend after he’s bored with you, what he really means is that when he’s horny you’re his back-up plan.  He’ll call if he doesn’t have anyone else lined up, or he just needs someone to talk to when he’s lonely and his brainless mannequins can’t stimulate him in the same way.  I’m open to you being my special friend when I get bored, until a real man comes along, if you are.

With much affection,

~Jane, I mean, T.L.

1 comment:

  1. Adam, you're a horrible, horrible person for making TL cry. :) Now we'll just have o come up with a form of punishment befitting the crime.

    You're a fellow writer... Is "pwned" a common word?