I don’t mean to brag, but I’m friends with a lot of really fucking annoying people on Facebook. The girl with the blog, the chronic over-sharer, the selfie-taker — they’ve all got prime spots on my newsfeed. And being the ever industrious gal I am, I’ve begun to notice and track a pattern with all of these people (I’m a psychology major. I can spot a personality disorder from miles away).
They all brag about their boyfriends. Constantly.
“Best dinner date with my best friend! Tim is sooooo perfect! He even bought me flowers and chocolate #loveyababe #preengaged #6months”
But here’s the thing, Melissa. We all know Tim isn’t perfect. And not just because of his weirdly receding hairline. No, we know Tim isn’t perfect because literally no one wants flowers and chocolate anymore. Tim didn’t even try with that gift. His inability to think outside the box and come up with a thoughtful, unique way to show he cares actually shows precisely the opposite.
You see, if your boyfriend was really perfect, he’d be perfect. And by that I mean he would’ve shown up to your dinner date with what you really wanted: Twinkies and those lightbulbs you’ve been meaning to buy for weeks, but keep forgetting to put on your list. He would then proceed to take you to your favorite restaurant for dinner: Taco Bell. As you place your nineteen dollar order, he would not judge. No, in fact, he would admire. He would think to himself: “Damn, my girl is sturdy.” He would promptly drive you back to your apartment because he knows, just as well as you do, that eating at Taco Bell is depressing as fuck. A cheesy gordita crunch is meant to be enjoyed while wearing sweatpants and trying to find something to watch On Demand. He would just get it.
Later in the evening, he would not roll his eyes when you brought up Real Housewives for the eleventh time that day. In fact, he would agree with your opinion and successfully parlay it into a discussion about the intricacies of Jax and Stassi’s relationship on Vanderpump Rules. He would solemnly nod his head when you reiterate, perhaps for the millionth time, that Jax is a sociopath. Your boyfriend would know that Jax is the worst, because he, himself, is actually the best.
And then later that evening, as you drift off to sleep, your boyfriend would know to not spoon you because you overheat easily. He would instead keep a solid foot of distance between the two of you. You would get the best sleep of your life.
In the morning, he would know to not speak to you for the first hour you are awake. He would understand that even the slightest sound or yawn he makes will irrationally fill you with an all-consuming blackout rage. He would get out of your way as you make coffee. And by “get out of your way,” I mean he would just straight up leave. He would not text you for a few hours because would not be needy like that. He would be a man, goddamnit.
Later, when he texts you about lunch, he would be totally fine with the fact that you, Lauren C., Lauren H., and Loren already made lunch plans. He would not make fun of the fact that your lunch plans are to get froyo. In a word, he would be, well, perfect. .
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