Nice Guy

I’d rather have a Fuck Boy. At least I know what I’m walking into—a disappointing, non committed, disrespectful 3 am “u up?” kind of thing. You know where you stand, and that’s at the bottom of their priorities.

But, Nice Guys? No, guys who think they are being “nice” give you whiplash and a dull ache in the pit of your stomach that is reassured by waves of their “nice” behavior. They also go by “friendly guys”—the ones with a of friends—friends that are girls.

Their Instagram is filled with a dizzying endless list of Lexi’s, Liz’s, Annika’s, Sarah’s, Jenna’s, Maddie’s, Charlotte’s, and Ashley’s. Always active, always friendly comments, on never ending countless pictures. They “like” everything and from everyone. You think you’re special, but really you’re just another pretty face with cute (insert hair, nose, smile, outfits, eyes) they keep in their confidence boosting repertoire—feeding their malnourished insecurities they love to neglect.

In the quiet of the night, when they get too lonely that isn’t enough for the instant gratification of social media to sustain, they’ll think of you (or Liz, or Jenna, or Sarah) and know it would be a “fuck boy” move to text you right then and there. They think they’re not that desperate, too smart and too much a catch to stoop to Fuck Boy level. This is when they start to craft a master plan they bury in sad excuses so they don’t have to accept the reality of their next actions.

They’ll choose their prey, unconsciously of course, they’ll make themselves believe this is the girl they like (for now), and move to strike. A friendly text, a smile—the kind of attention this girl has probably been craving for awhile.

It starts with an innocent hang out, one with some kind of deep connection and he’ll make lots of concerned faces, and she’ll think “wow he’s really listening.” He’ll be thoughtful and he’ll use his “I’m a nice guy I get hurt by mean girls” act to lure you in. She’ll want to comfort him and his wounded ego. Nice Guys are too “wounded” to think they can be in relationships, and you’ll feel special because they opened up to you about it—they were just being honest, of course.

It’ll be your choice all along, he’ll be so nice you never realized you ended up in the bed of someone who puts “up for anything” in his Tinder profile.

The endless downward spiral of two people wanting to feed their egos with opposing strategies begins and they tumble further into a confusing, hurtful, disgusting dance.

He’ll give you what he thinks you want, to get what he wants, even though you never asked for it. Nice Guys love to introduce you to their families, friends, house, and routines. That’s how they stay the respectful good guy.

The worst thing you can do is let this cloud what this thing really is—remember, he’s too hurt to be in a real relationship.

And six months in, he’ll be sorry he gave you mixed signals. And you’ll feel like a fool for believing any of his actions could mean more than they did or that he’d be the least bit remorseful—I mean, you’d think you’d be past “mixed signals” when you two have gone through so much, right? ….right?

Your thoughts will always fall into an echo chamber, filled with whispered warnings of girls past, and never on the ears that need to hear your prayers.

You’ll hope you were the one to break the cycle, the one to help him “find himself”….But…when the nights get lonely again, when the tank of his ego, and masculinity dries, he’ll want to fill it with another’s sweet nothings. And in twisted irony, both of you will be scrolling through his Instagram simultaneously, searching for meaning again.

So Nice Guys, This is why girls go for the Fuck Boy. When you’re with a Fuck Boy, you’re never really holding onto something you thought would be worth it, or mutual, or special. All you can do is roll your eyes at the 3am text and decide to go over to his or go back the fuck to sleep.

Aged

My grandpa’s house smelled like an old car: lingering cigarette smoke burrowed in the cloth seats, warming musty air, aging leather with a hint of sunburnt plastic. I loved every breath of it. It smelled like time passed, and life happened: grounding, comforting and nostalgic.

“Now whyiiie…” he let out with a huffy drawl, “…would you want to do that?” The man’s eyes sparkled with wit and charm, like a smiling fox, but I felt comfort in his presence, He was an old memory you dream in haze and warmth.

The 80’s glass base lampshade beamed light onto his balding forehead, and exposed patches of liver spots mixed with still thick gray hair. His eyes may have sparkled with life, but they nested on aged dark circles. His mouth was always curled into a mysterious grin like there was a secret only he knew. I wanted to be in on that secret.

My memory of him only extends this far, and I never know how our conversation ends. All I know is that I’ll always keep chasing that secret in his eyes.

Stars

Do people come back into your life for a reason? Or is it just a random constellation of moments, swirling endlessly for an infinity so that a moment could just simply, Exist. +AM

Fleeting

Isn’t funny how much we chase the fleeting moments of life?

We spend time, money, and effort just to experience something that is significantly more fun, but drastically more small if it was quantified. Yet, we crave and run with abandon towards those moments. They fill and overwhelm us. It is the breath of life–I mean the kiss of a loved one, the scenery of a new place, the crowd of applause after a performance, the chance to dig deeper, go farther.

And even after all the money spent, eyes drenched with exhaustion, we will always say it was worth it.

Sun

She wanted to reach out and touch the sun. Stretch, hope.

She was jealous of the trees. Sun burnt, glowing with orange and red hues, the trees were touched by the sun. They could change, evolve and shed remnants of the year. All because of the sun. She wanted the sun to sear away memories, thoughts, lives. She wanted to be anything but green.

Unrequited

She didn’t want to comprehend what he was saying. She didn’t accept the truth, or let it in. Because if she did, then the years of blocks she barricaded herself with would tumble down, each one sending a ripple of sickening pain she had yet to allow herself to feel.

But, he said those words.

He spoke the simple truth. Even still, she knew he cared for her, maybe more than any other before him. But this is what made it so much more painful, so much more disheartening. And so, she let herself feel. And she didn’t run. She sat there, and cried. Instantly, he held her, knowing she cried for more than just him. It was the nicest thing anyone has done for her.

So, she wept for every mistrust and insecurity she felt at home, every guy that let her down, every moment life felt lonely. And yet, there was nothing more satisfying than crying into someone, letting them feel the whole weight of your body, physically surrendering yourself to the world: letting gravity win, emotion wash over you, and tears stream down your face.

It is simultaneously heartbreaking and healing. In perfect silence, in sweet simplicity, she cried into him and he held onto her, both realizing fate had set their paths to cross but to never align. It was an innocent intimacy that she will never forget and always secretly crave. +AM

Mother

She just wanted a hand to hold while she drifted to sleep. It was my hand. The hand she created in the same womb that was now destroying her.

It was innocent, compassionate, vulnerable, unadulterated love. She thought I was healing her, but I knew she was healing me. So we sat in silence, industrial lights, constant monitor beeping, with a half eaten cracker and ice chips between us. Time stopped and flowed simultaneously.

It was then I realized that God’s love is endless, ebbing and flowing through the confines of space and time.

The moment washed over me, understanding I should relish this sliver of timeless love. To drink it in with each wave recession, and let it flow out with each tide that tickles the shore of heaven.

The veil of time was lifted, if only for a brief second, and I will spend the rest of my life striving for more timeless love moments.

Gut

You smell so good, he says

I smell the comfort of his ex

He notices, I like your red hair

I see something that fades

I love your hugs, he sighs

I sense I’m just an anchor

He resounds, I’m glad you came over

I crave more than just a night

I wonder if I’ll ever be enough, she thinks.

Loved

The fluorescent light flickered above her, and she stared absent mindedly at her reflection in the mirror. She looked down again, as if to run inventory one last time: two toothbrushes, one male razor, one female razor, two deodorants, one makeup bag, two contact lens cases. She the starred at the crusty rimmed toothpaste tube in front of her. There were two. Two tubes of toothpaste. And it hit her then, knowing instantly, within simplicity, that her best friend was being taken. Her best friend was the girlfriend who moved into the boyfriend’s house. It is surprising, when something you knew was occurring but didn’t quite acknowledge just plants itself at your feet, sinisterly, as if to say, “hello, I’m here. There’s no stopping it.” The toothpaste tube said hello, and brought her back to reality, one where her best friend had now been dating this questionable human long enough to have bathroom supplies. After the wave of this moment crashed and subsided, she quickly washed her hands and joined everyone back in the dinning room. She could her their laughter echoing in the halls “haha oh I do remember that!” The best friend said, stretching her arm to anchor herself against his chest. They were linked now, and she knew from now on, that her responsibility as a best friend would be far greater if they broke up. She felt that moment quell in her bones, and couldn’t decide if she was feeling loyal, protective, doubtful, or happy for her best friend. Regardless, she joined the ascending laughter with a smile that disguised any hints of judgement on two tubes of toothpaste. +AM

Tattoos

I’m scarred. But not wounded anymore. You know? It’s more like an edged and jaded tattoo that is stained into my heart, and the whole world can see it. I feel pain and loss, insecurity and hopelessness. And sometimes my tattoo is faint, where the warmth and passion glows and burns so brightly that the tattoo seems so unimportant compared to the beating light and glory behind it. But, there are times when my tattoo grows like a weed: overpowering every glimpse of joy in my heart–thorns piercing and draining every drop of light. It grows faster and faster–almost exponentially. There is no stoping it. There is no running away. I am simply left alone, to be scarred. But never wounded. Endlessly. +AM