An open letter to all the biddies in #LOVE

“Rain, movies and cuddling (insert emoticon, insert emoticon, insert emoticon)…perfect night!”

Gag.

While I guess it’s wonderful that you have a cuddle buddy, here’s how it actually comes across:  You’re “in #love” – #love means “it’s not real.”  You spend your days taking selfies in a bed of crumpled sheets next to your man with a sheepish grin slapped on his face.  Then you (waaaahhhh) have to go to work, which is probably some shitty Pac Sun job you’re still hanging on to from high school because you were too “in love” to get an education.  Then all day long at said shitty job, you tweet about how much you miss your “baby”…your “soulmate”…the “love of your life.”  Then the weekend comes.  And you take more self-indulgent photos of you and your man all dolled up and ready to hit da club.  He’s head to toe in FUBU and you look like Kim Kardashian’s slutty younger cousin.  You’re holding a Mike’s Hard Lemonade because you’re still living in high school, and he’s got his arm around…hold on…oh my God that’s a child.  His child.  Who has a completely different baby mama.  This just got better.  You’re now living a pseudo-parental life while wearing a skirt that will give the poor kid a far-too-early introduction into what a vagina looks like the second you bend down to pick up his dropped pacifier.

A few days go by.

“I don’t need anything in this ratchet world but my loveeeeee.”  Wrong.  You need money.  And food.  And a roof over your head.  Which in turn means you need a job, because unless you’re living in some sort of fairy land, da bills gotsta be paid.  And I guarantee that $7 an hour you’re making basically covers getting your nails done.  And buying the occasional pack of gum from CVS.

But wait…how does she survive?!?!  One can only assume at this point that you’ve got some job on the side that allows you to go out drinking every weekend.  Judging by your ensemble, I’m going to guess prostitution.  No, too mean.  Let’s call you an “escort.”  Because apparently that means you don’t have to have sex.  It’s optional.  No wonder yo man luuuuuhhhhs you so much.  You’ve probably got moves you learned from that high profile Spaniard who hired you out last weekend – moves your baby’s never seen.  If I enjoyed muff diving, I’d probably fall in love with you too.

But let’s just say, for shits and giggles, that you’re not an escort.  Let’s say your BF happens to make a lot of moola selling “vacuum cleaners” (that happen to smell strongly of weed).  So, he pays for everything.  You’ve got a certifiable sugar daddy.  Me-ow.

“Haha – look what my man drew – it’s a gun!  On my thigh! Hahahaha.”

What the fuck.

“Goin to the movies with my love!”

Go away.

“Just made spaghetti with my amour!”

I just ordered a pizza.  Big fucking deal.

“Nobody knows me better than him…”

Except maybe the mother that ripped her vaginal walls to birth you.  There may be a slightly larger connection there.

Okay, okay.  I’m sure you’re a nice girl.  Maybe I’m being too harsh.  Maybe it’s because I’m a single spinster.  Oh wait.  I’m 23.  No I’m fucking not.  Because, really, if this is what it’s like to fall “in love” and be with a “boyfriend,” I’ll take my Saturday marathons of Law & Order SVU over that any day.

Besides, let’s be honest – in about a month’s time, you’re going to put up some sappy/angry/emotional/depressing lyric from some Kelly Clarkson song to show the world how much stronger you are without that “asshole” who broke your heart and now has a dick the size of a toothpick (“I couldn’t tell if he was trying to fuck me or erase me” – name that show!).

#love is the worst.  Am I right, or am I right?

#allthesingleladies.

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