So I wrote this rant on assignment for my writing class and sent it off to a bunch of my friends. I honestly thought it was funny. Anyhow, my friends either hated it or thought it was really funny. You can decide. I’ll admit I did write it in a rage–recalling how annoyed I was with this guy I dated…because he eventually stalked me!
But I swear I’m not angry about it anymore. It’s more tongue-in-cheek. Come on, people, puhleeze, I’m not going to suffer and continue dating someone I called Shrek. Don’t call me telling me I need more therapy.
I AM HAPPILY DATING RIGHT NOW!!!
Here is the piece.
There was a time in my life when I used to date really hot guys. I’m talking smoking hot. It got to the point where a friend said, “I’m always curious to see who you’re going to bring around. Guys you date are so attractive.”
My friends don’t say that anymore. Now they say, “How come you won’t introduce us to Shrek?” That’s right I called you Shrek. My friend asked me to name a celebrity that you looked like and I said, “Shrek.” It was the first thing that came to mind.
You’re ugly. You’re boring. Shit, you don’t even live in the city. I’d made a pact that I would rather reignite a relationship with someone from New York than date someone who lived in the fucking South Bay. And here I am, breaking my pact, breaking the promise that I had to myself. The dream: tall, handsome, portfolio manager who made so much money we’d have a 1 nanny to 1 kid ratio. I could retire, spend my days getting my nails done and going to Pilates like all the other moms in the Marina.
But no, now I have to work, you good for nothing lead project coordinator. That’s just a fancy way of saying you do data entry. Didn’t your parents care that you got good grades, worked hard in school like I did? I worked my ass off, studied into the wee hours of the night, woke up to count change at one of my three part-time college jobs. My bosses loved me, looked out for me. People respected the work that I did. I got promoted, I went to the #1 business school in the country. And you know what I get? Mr. Mediocre. Oh wait, I meant Mr. Ogre, you good for nothing toad.
You can’t even get another job, you have no skills. You’re just crossing your fingers that you don’t get fired or laid off. I hope not either because then who’s going to pay the bills once we eventually get married. Because we eventually will. You’ll scrape up enough money to get me a piece of shit diamond ring from the Shane Company—something so substandard I’ll have to buy another so as not to be embarrassed. I’ll return that piece of shit ring you gave me only to find out it’ll barely cover the sales tax on the new ring I’ll need to purchase for myself to have a little dignity.
And we will have kids. Unfortunately, they’ll be ugly. 50% you and 50% me. And even though I’m cute, all my good genes won’t be able to eradicate the ugliness that is you.
I wish I could dump you Shrek, but at this age, I can’t afford to be picky.