Until I was 30, I dated only boys. I’ll tell you why: Men scared the sh*t out of me. Men know what they want. Men own alarm clocks. Men sleep on a mattress that isn’t on the floor. Men buy new shampoo instead of adding water to a nearly empty bottle of shampoo. Men make reservations. Men go in for a kiss without giving you some long preamble about how they’re thinking of kissing you. Men wear clothes that have never been worn by anyone else before.

OK, maybe men aren’t exactly like this. But this is what I’ve cobbled together from the handful of men I know or know of, ranging from Heathcliff Huxtable to Theodore Roosevelt to my dad. The point: Men know what they want, and that is scary.

What I was used to want was boys.

Boys are adorable. Boys trail off their sentences in an appealing way. Boys get haircuts from their roommate, who “totally knows how to cut hair.” Boys can pack up their whole life and move to Brooklyn for a gig if they need to. Boys have “gigs.” Boys are broke. And when they do have money, they spend it on a trip to Colorado to see a music festival.

When men hear women want a commitment, they think it means commitment to a romantic relationship, but that’s not it. It’s a commitment to not floating around anymore. I want a guy who is entrenched in his own life.

Mindy Kaling in Glamour

I’m not 30 yet - I am 24 - but I’d way rather be dating a guy with something to do during the day other than text me random lines of knock-knock jokes (this has happened to me) than be worrying about this garbage.

I don’t understand my generation’s obsession with dating adorably incompetent boys - or adorably incompetent girls (Zooey Deschanel) either. Do they make us feel better about ourselves? I spent a lot of time in college “hanging out” with some boys, because boys “hang out” - they certainly don’t date - and I felt pretty awful about myself the entire time. I spent a lot of time in college being an adorably (questionable) incompetent girl, and I’m fairly certain that absolutely nobody wanted to date me, or come within ten feet of me without a substantial alcoholic shield. Maybe I’m bitter and broken because of the atonement I believe I’ve done for my incompetence, but maybe this isn’t my first rodeo anymore. 

If you can’t remember to complete simple tasks, if you have absolutely nothing about which you feel passionately (I’m not talking about me), if you have absolutely no trajectory in your career or your education, you’re like dead weight, my friend. You live in an apartment that looks like my freshman dorm room and you’re still reading books by Jack Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson, because you didn’t read them when we were all fifteen. You’re probably sitting at a bar, smelling like a thrift store, telling me about something you recently thought was “transcendent,” trying to avoid buying a beer for me because you actually do not have enough money to buy a beer for me. As you will soon learn, buying beers for me is the way to my heart and you have absolutely no way of getting there. You’re probably also trying to write for Thought Catalog. I AM SICK OF YOU.

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