Monday, 5 March 2012
Maybe the world has lost a general sense of decency. Maybe your fathers were philandering anti-role models, giving you an odd compulsion to attract a mate but then quickly sabotage the situation with the gusto of a toddler making a sandcastle. Maybe your beloved pet recently died, sending you into a spiralling mentality preoccupied with darkness, futility and apathy. But I am calling time on the 'men are shits' parade - right now.
I didn't always feel like this towards you. I used to love meeting new men, finding out about them, all of their little quirks, playing the game. Now, it seems, one or two solid relationships into our twenties, we are not potential conversation and meal-sharing partners but faceless targets for astonishing levels of sleaze and timewasting.
I could blame your ex-girlfriends for no doubt 'messing you up', leading you to believe relationships were simple and long lasting and then running off with some tattooed lothario from the local indie bar. But at some point, a man in his twenties has to stand straight, look himself in the mirror and take responsibility for whatever kind of knobbery he is inflicting on unsuspecting womankind.
I never used to understand why women I knew stayed with the wrong man for years, or kept going back to someone who was never going to set their world alight (romantically rather than pyromaniacally speaking). Now I know. Because when they stepped, emotionally barefoot, into that big single world of dates and tentative texts, they were rewarded with nothing but bullshit.
I will never again admonish a friend for hotfooting it back to a shabby ex (or contemplating it) because it's seriously tough out there. There seems to be a trend for appearing completely normal and then knocking you for six with sudden, unspeakable wankery.
Boys - if it's genuine ignorance and you would like a legal document entitled Things That Are Not OK, please do just let me know. How we get from this stage of dating life freakshow to the one in the misty future where people are cohabiting and procreating all over the shop is beyond me.
I don't want this to be representative of the Miss Write experience since I hopped on a train to Cardiff, acquired all kinds of journalism savvy and snapped up a fabulous job and a cute little flat in the big city. It's been ace. But my goodness, do boys know how to erase all of that good feeling with blunder after blunder.
Miss Write (and females everywhere)