Predictable girls, predictable boys

Something has been bothering me lately.  And I would like to say that this pressing matter of the mind is of the most utmost importance to human kind, or that it in anyway mattered, in any real sense of the word.  But it’s not. And it doesn’t.  Yet here I am, condemned to think about it, like the pathetic piece of hormones and anxiety wrapped up in melanin deficient skin that I am.  And the matter is this: girls.  Or one girl in particular, who I will now use to condemn the rest of my Y-chromosome deficient friends with.  Her crime?  Well what other is there? Refusing to be wooed by whatever charm I think that I’m emitting, of course. 

No; that’s not even exactly the problem… It’s that petty bit more complicated than that.  A boyfriend.  Right. Of course.  So far so predictable.  But that’s where it all goes wrong!  Because after that it becomes so depressingly predictable; so utterly tragic and teenage, that I doubt even American Pie 58, ‘Jocks, Cheerleaders, and Nerds On a Plane’, would touch the script.    This boyfriend (I will continue to write that in italics, simply to add more despairing venom to the tone) of hers, is sporty: I am not.  This boyfriend of hers, is built like a house: I am not.  This boyfriend of hers, is so nauseatingly her boyfriend – in that kind of depressing future-successful-businessman/husband kind of way – I want to crawl up inside myself and hide from a world that, at some point, seems to have gone ever so wrong.  For me anyway… 

Now, it’s not the fact she has a boyfriend that bothers me.  I mean, of course she has a boyfriend, I mean look at her!  Well, imagine someone good looking in your head and look at that.  But when this boyfriend, as his soul message to the world, on one of those torturous internet profile sites, decides to sum himself up in the following words: ‘I like anything sporty.  I’m always up for a laugh with the lads, and I hope to be successful while doing it, lol!’.  Well, that’s when I get so filled with contempt and despair that I vow never to be myself ever, ever, ever again.  I mean come on: ‘lol’!? ‘LOL’ ??!!! In what possible way, on what possible planet, could that endear her to him?  This one.  This one right here. The one I’m sitting in, spitting with jealous rage and lamenting the birth of this contemptible, moronic boyfriend of hers. 

And another thing: ‘lads’?  ‘LADS’?!?  Who is this guy?  'Sport'; the ‘lads’; ‘lol’; proclamations of future success: whatever happened to the ambitionless underdog?  Have years of being culturally pounded with teen romance comedies taught you girls nothing? He doesn’t get the girl! He can’t get the girl! No one would watch that film. So my advice to you is this, girls – live you life as if you where living a film:  Shag me;  not him –  me.