A Response to Total Frat Move’s A Letter To the Girl You’re Hooking Up With But Will Never Marry
Dear (insert WASPy Family name, e.g. Collins, Campbell, Patton),
I’m flattered, truly I am. I am so undeniably pleased that I am the one that made such poetry seep from your fingers. You’re even using big words like ‘acknowledged’ and ‘vengeance.’ I’m seriously speechless.
But let’s get a few things straight.
You never took me out on dates. Sure, I carried your drunk ass home from a few bars, a date function, and a Carrie Underwood concert. I’ve sat around with your brothers and listened to your “clutch ass speakers” bump overplayed techno kendrick lamar remixes and encores of Wagon Wheel until I thought I would literally strangle myself with your chodey ‘Raised Right’ Republican Vineyard Vines bow tie. But let’s be clear, you vomiting on me, licking my face, and then rubbing the crotch of my jeans until I tell you that we aren’t having sex tonight is definitely NOT a date.
Bear with me here.
I know this is going to be hard for you to hear. You seem pretty cool. You know at least 200 words. You’re only a little annoying, and the sex is definitely decent when your whiskey dick isn’t getting in the way. You’re the real deal, BMOC, the shit, so to speak. But this thing- this thing where you think that I even WANT to marry a P.O.S like you, has got to end.
Sure it was fun in the beginning. I liked getting the ever-eloquent “wanna fuck?” texts at 2 am, every woman’s prime. I even kinda liked your overeager follow up texts: “?”, “??”, and my personal favorite “8===D ;).” I’m not mad about our 30-90 minute chance encounters. I’m not even mad that I never stayed the night, because, honestly, I never wanted to wake up smelling like lime Burnetts, dick, and B.O. Sure, it was fun while it lasted, but a lady’s got to draw the line somewhere- and I draw mine at mediocrity.
Let’s get real.
Despite what you may be telling yourself, my Pinterest wedding boards were never about you. You look too much like a gorilla to be holding a mason jar, anyway, and he truth is, I’m bored of you. I’m really over evenings spent in your bed, pretending not to notice you masturbating (to Bravo, of all things). Quite frankly, I’m over you thinking that you are marriage material. My bank account and my tits are too big for you to think that someone as small and insignificant as you can break my heart.
So, WASP. Have a good life. I hope its filled with alimony, children in therapy, and heaps of Viagra.
The Girl You’ll Never Marry