Going On Record

Dear Future Men Who Might Attempt To Date Me,

Hi.

Don't bother.

I am tired of you.

I would rather set myself on fire than go through the effort of getting to know you, allowing you to know me, letting you into my life, and so on, and so forth, etcetera.

Because no matter how wonderful you may seem, inevitably, you will be disappointing and infuriating and hurtful and just completely...unaware of your own behavior. You will be a coward. You will be.......

You will call me at 10:40 pm on a Thursday night. And I will hear in your voice that you need something. From me. And because I am stupid, I will return your call and think--not because I love you, or miss you, really, but because I'm lonely and it's been a long, hard week--that maybe you are calling to tell me you're coming up for Valentine's Day. Because I am stupid, and have this stupid, stupid, horrible, hopeful, fucking imagination, I will think that you are calling to make a plan. Again, not because I think we're right, but mostly because you're safe and harmless, and, well, familiar.

And instead you tell me you have a bump on your tongue.

A bump on your tongue.

Even more ridiculous than a polka-dot on your puffalump. A bump on your tongue. A bump on a muscle that is bitten and oddly shapen and, well, usually bumpy.

And, of course, you think it's herpes. You know it, really. You're certain. And the doctor couldn't do a definitive test--too many hours had gone by since this tongue-bump appeared. So, it could be anything. Could be *gasp* an inflamed taste bud. Could be. But, it seems like such a random series of coincidences. Some polka-dots and now a bump. On your tongue, no less. The breeding ground for many sexually transmitted diseases.

From the sound of your voice, before you even say aloud what you're thinking, I know what you want. You want me to go get tested again. During this month, when I am working, literally every single fucking day, you want me to find time to go to the doctor. Because of you and your bumpy tongue.

And, maybe I have it. Maybe the two blood tests, and the tests for every STD in the WORLD, and your (what?) seven doctor's visits to two separate physicians, and your multiple tests, and God knows what else...maybe they're all wrong. All of them. Maybe I have something.

Will you feel better then? Having someone to blame. What answer do you hope to get? That I have...something. The ability to inflame the taste buds of others, perhaps. Wreaking bumpy havoc on tongues 'round the globe.

So.

Everyone can write what they want in the comments. Tell me it's not fair to blame boys everywhere. Tell me that he'll come along some day, and be fantastic and kind and all of those things that some women find boys to be.

But this woman seems to find only the crazies. And whether that's me, or them, I don't know. Probably some combination of both. Probably something to do with my dad not giving me a toy I wanted when I was eight months old. Or my mother making me wear pants too often as a young child. Who knows. Whatever the case, I'm off the market.

I'm too sick to go out on dates anyway. There's a bump on my tongue.